


Where I Fall is Where I Land

by myrmidryad



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Cultural Differences, F/F, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Religious Conflict, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-24
Updated: 2015-03-24
Packaged: 2018-03-19 11:07:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 34,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3607869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myrmidryad/pseuds/myrmidryad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“We call them godmarks,” Enjolras explained to Grantaire. “And those who bear matching godmarks are soulmates.”</p><p> </p><p>Enjolras is the Roman commander of a cavalry unit on Hadrian's Wall in the waning years of the Empire. Grantaire is a Pict.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where I Fall is Where I Land

**Author's Note:**

> Title from [Off I Go](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dHzr7wdnuqw) by Greg Laswell.
> 
> This fic is inspired by and very loosely based on the truly awful 2004 King Arthur movie. Because I am a firm believer that bad movies make GREAT aus.
> 
> Thanks go to Felix for his encouragement and worldbuilding help! :D

Newcomers at the wall were few and far between, and the garrison commander’s visiting nephew was being mobbed for news of the Empire beyond Britannica’s island edges. Honorius still ruled the Western Empire in name, and his father-in-law Stilicho in everything else. Since the last campaign orders last year, there had been silence from across the sea, and Enjolras listened with his soldiers as the nephew answered questions from higher ranking officers.

“Hierarchy in everything,” Combeferre muttered. “Even this.”

Courfeyrac snorted agreement and Jehan shushed them, leaning forward to listen as the answers took a sinister air. They had their problems from the Picts, but Rome was facing worse problems with the Goths. Violent, organised raids and strikes, calculated to weaken Rome’s power.

“At least our Woads are sloppy.” Combeferre sat back against Courfeyrac, closing his eyes. He probably couldn’t see their visitor from here anyway, Enjolras figured. Or at least, no distinguishing features.

“We’ll be recalled to join the main armies by next year,” Feuilly said under his breath, lips pursed. “You wait and see.”

Jehan grinned. “Finally off this tiny island.”

“I’ll go when they pay last year’s wages in full.” Bahorel spat on the ground and got to his feet, conspicuous in the crowded room as he swept out.

Enjolras was about to follow when someone mentioned Lamarque, and his head whipped back to the front. “Nasty business,” the nephew was saying, shaking his head. A hand closed around his wrist – Courfeyrac, Enjolras could tell by the familiar hum in his godmark – and Enjolras let himself be held back.

“Is Lamarque well?” he shouted over the heads of the other officers and their soldiers. It earned him a few dirty looks, but the nephew didn’t seem to notice, leaning back and taking a gulp of wine as he gave Enjolras a steady look.

“Were you an admirer?”

Courfeyrac’s hand tightened, and Enjolras went very still. “Am,” he called. “I _am_ an admirer.”

The nephew shook his head, eyes shuttered. “You were. Lamarque’s dead. Excommunicated and executed.”

His godmark ached as Combeferre took his other wrist, tethering him to the earth when he felt like floating away. They pulled him between them on the bench and hid him as he stared at his lap, mind emptying of everything but thoughts of denial.

He matched Bahorel drink for drink that night until he was under the table (taking an embarrassingly short time).

 

There had been more of them in the beginning. Enjolras had been appointed as the commander of the descendants of the Iazyges when he was twenty-two, the position given to him partly as a joke. The Iazyges soldiers were insubordinate and rowdy, and Enjolras had been a headstrong youth who demanded a position worthy of his abilities. So he had been assigned to the Iazyges, and defied expectations by staying with them.

It had helped, of course, that Combeferre and Courfeyrac were his soulmates, but they hadn’t found that out for months. Their godmark only bloomed to life the first time they were all touching each other, matching twists of purple and brown appearing on the inside of their left arms. A three-pointed star of sorts, made of woven strands of colour. Everything had come together after that. Enjolras might not have been born of the blood of the Iazyges, but in their culture, it was traditional to adopt an outsider as their own if they shared a godmark.

So Enjolras remained commander even as their numbers dwindled. He shared their food, their drink, their sorrows and joys. He slept with them, fought with them, and led them into battle when called to. They were his brothers, and with Lamarque now dead, they were the only family he had.

There wasn’t time to grieve. The nephew arrived with the supply wagon, bound for the families beyond the wall. Enjolras and his soldiers were the best riders, so they were the ones ordered to accompany it north and see it reached its destination. Not four miles beyond the wall, they were attacked.

Screaming Picts burst from the edge of the woods, their arrows whistling from the cover of the trees. Jehan fired back as he rode, his horse directed only by his feet as he zig-zagged through the battle, effortlessly calm in the midst of chaos. Enjolras had no such control over his own mount, and ended up jumping to the ground to kill a Pict about to swing an axe into Feuilly’s back.

Bahorel was bellowing and Courfeyrac was in the river, and Enjolras shouted as his horse reared, startled by a stray arrow. A Pict tried to take advantage of the distraction but Enjolras buried his sword in her belly before she could get hers in his. The next Pict came from his right, a wild swing of his axe that Enjolras countered, twisted aside. He deflected another and slashed his blade over the man’s unguarded throat. He choked on blood as he fell at Enjolras’ feet, but Enjolras had already moved onto the next attacker, the adrenaline burning through his veins.

There were so many Picts, dozens on dozens, but they were undisciplined and wild, and Enjolras’ soldiers were trained and tough. It lasted maybe ten minutes, and before Enjolras knew what had happened, he had the last Pict standing opposite him, his sword at her throat. There was a godmark on her forehead, a bright red circle like a sun, and she bared her teeth at Enjolras as she dropped her axe and went to her knees.

She spat a few words in her harsh tongue, and Enjolras struggled to remember the language and order it in his head – “Spill my blood and make this ground sacred.”

Her soulmate was alive, the brightness of her godmark proof. The colours faded once death broke the bond, and hers was as vibrant as the blood spattered across her face. She glared up at him with fire in her eyes, long black hair unbound and matted with blood. There were no women like this on the wall, no women like this among the Romans. He wondered who among her people bore a matching mark on their forehead. He angled his sword and spoke to her in her own language. “Pick it up.”

She hissed at him like an animal and tilted her chin back instead, daring him to kill her. But he could see the tremors in her shoulders, and he couldn’t take his eyes off the red circle on her head. He pushed the tip of his blade to the hollow of her throat and said again, in a harder voice, “Pick it up.”

She took two shuddering breaths before reaching out for her axe, and gripped it so tight he could see her knuckles go white between the blood smeared on the skin there. He should kill her now. He’d hoped he would be able to, once she was armed. But instead he dropped his sword and turned away, going back to the wagon and his soulmates.

Combeferre grasped his arm when he got there, eyes pained, but Courfeyrac swung himself up into his saddle and kicked his horse away. Of the three of them, he was the most bloodthirsty and battle-hardened. He’d lost too many friends to the Picts to feel any pity for them now. Combeferre was the opposite, mourning every life he ended. Enjolras lay somewhere between, and right then he ached to be back in the barracks with his soulmates either side of him, safe and whole.

Marius and Jehan rode ahead to scout the way as they accompanied the wagon further north to the meeting spot, where Antonius’ soldiers would take over. They had to stay there overnight as the wagon trundled on without them, it being too late in the year for them to make it back to the wall before dark.

“Do you really think we’ll be recalled to Rome?” Marius asked after their fire was crackling merrily, his frown illuminated by the flames.

“Not keen to go back?” Feuilly teased. “You’re the only real Roman among us, surely you want to go home?”

“Marius isn’t Roman.” Courfeyrac looped his arm around Marius’ neck and grinned, hugging him roughly. “He’s mine. Just like Enjolras.” His and Marius’ godmarks were on the backs of their shoulders, small matching swirls of blue. Courfeyrac had the most godmarks of anyone Enjolras knew. As well as the mark he shared with Enjolras and Combeferre, he had another he shared with Combeferre alone. Flower-like shapes of gold and pink blooming across his and Combeferre’s hearts, divine proof of the beauty of their bond.

“We won’t be recalled to Rome,” Combeferre told him. “If we go anywhere, it’ll be to Gaul, or to wherever the Goths are raiding.”

“I’d rather fight Woads than Goths,” Feuilly muttered, stretching out on his side, head propped up on his hand. “At least the Woads aren’t organised.”

“Afraid of a challenge?” Bahorel teased. They fell to bickering, and Enjolras leaned briefly against Combeferre. The thought of being called away from the wall was a strange and foreign one. He might have been Roman, but he’d been born here to a Celtic woman. Not Roman, not Celtic, not Iazyges, where did he belong? It was one of the things he liked most about the Empire; the way it absorbed all people and brought them under one name, called them to one cause.

He kept watch longer than he needed to after the others bedded down, knowing he wouldn’t be able to fall asleep even if he tried. The politics from the south and from further afield, from Rome, had kept them dancing on strings for years. They were little more than a skeleton crew on the wall now, too few of them left to properly defend Britannica from the increasing Saxon raids and the never ending hostilities from the Picts.

The Empire hadn’t always been fragile. Enjolras remembered childhood lessons, the history of the Empire stretching back hundreds of years, even back before they had heard Christ’s holy word and become a Christian Empire. Even as pagans, the Romans had been strong. But now the edges of the Empire were crumbling, and Enjolras was losing his footing as it shifted beneath him.

He wanted retirement, not more bloodshed. He was sick of killing, scared of losing more of his remaining friends, and as harsh and cold and bleak as this island was, it was home to him. He’d never known anything else. He’d wanted to go to Rome to visit Lamarque, but with Lamarque gone, the place held no attraction.

His doubts gnawed at him all the way back to the wall, and it was Courfeyrac who took him aside after they’d returned and bathed and eaten, and pulled him into a long, fierce hug. Enjolras clung to him and prayed that they would be allowed to stay here long enough to retire, even if they had to go south. As long as they lived, he no longer cared. The idea of losing any more made his heart ache.

When they were ordered to go north again two weeks later, it almost broke.

 

Antonius was the sort of man who seemed to have been born purely to antagonise people like Enjolras. Politely told that he and his family were being evacuated for their own safety, he swelled up like a bullfrog and started bellowing about his rights and privileges as a free Roman citizen. Never mind that there were Picts at his throat and Saxons on his doorstep. God had given Antonius this piece of sodden, foggy land, and he was determined to cling to it until it was torn from his cold, dead hands.

When Enjolras dismounted and unsheathed his sword, he blustered. When the others cut him off from his own household guard, he started shouting. When Enjolras twisted the neck of his robe and touched the tip of his sword to his throat, he finally deflated. As they waited for his servants to pack up the household, the snow that had been threatening to fall all day finally broke from the heavy grey clouds overhead.

“It’s too dark now,” Courfeyrac muttered, wheeling his horse in agitated circles. “Too late to start. We’ll have to spend the night and set off at dawn.”

It was a bitter concession, but it was the only thing they can do. There was a Saxon raid coming from the north, but setting out in the dark in territory they only half knew was inviting disaster. Jehan was the one who woke him two hours before dawn to tell him that he could hear drums on the wind. Enjolras roused the household and stayed close to Antonius as Bahorel and Feuilly got the common folk up and moving. By the time dawn turned the sky pale grey, they were loading up the carts.

“For people being forced to leave their homes, they’re putting up a lot less of a fight than Antonius,” Combeferre mentioned, squinting at the growing crowd of villagers.

“I’ve got a better question.” Courfeyrac’s horse whinnied as he jerked his chin at something behind Enjolras. “What are they doing?” Enjolras and Combeferre turned, and Enjolras frowned at the sight before them. A pair of Antonius’ guards were watching as two men in sackcloth walled up a doorway in the wall of the fort. “Bit late to be building, wouldn’t you say?”

Enjolras drew his sword as he slid to the ground, leaving his horse with Combeferre as he strode over. It wasn’t just the chill of the snow and the biting wind – something was wrong here. The hair on the back of his neck was standing on end, and the guards scowled as he approached.

“Move.” Enjolras didn’t have time for this. They looked like they were about to try and stop him, but Courfeyrac and Bahorel rode up, eyes hard as stone.

“Do we have a problem?” Bahorel edged his horse between the guards and Enjolras as he stalked forward to the men in sackcloth – priests, he realised.

“What is this?” he demanded, gesturing to the nearly-completed wall they’d build in front of the door.

They exchanged glances, one of them shaking his head. “It’s forbidden,” he says, looking behind Enjolras to where the guards were being kept at a distance. “You can’t go in there.”

“What’s inside there?” Enjolras tightened his grip on his sword, and whirled at Antonius’ shout.

“What are you doing? Why aren’t we moving? Didn’t you say we had to leave?”

There were people in there. Enjolras knew it as sure as he knew his own godmark. He turned away from Antonius and looked for a better face. “Feuilly,” he called, pointing to the bricks. Feuilly slid from his horse and hefted his broadaxe. A few swings and the wall crumbled, too new to withstand the strength of Feuilly’s arm. The door burst open after two of his kicks.

Two torches burned either side of the door. Enjolras took one and went in, the numbness that had appeared as the wall crumbled growing at the sight of some sort of metal collar dangling from the ceiling by a chain. He barely heard Courfeyrac and Feuilly follow him in, driving the two priests ahead of them.

Stairs led down into the darkness, chanting rising up through the freezing air. It was colder in here than outside, even with the snow.

“This is death’s house,” Feuilly muttered somewhere behind him as they descended. Enjolras felt his heart freezing over to match the temperature. The smell of tallow candles hit him as he reached the bottom of the stairs, and he stared uncomprehendingly at the sight of a dead, wasted body chained to the wall opposite him.

Movement, and another priest stepped into the light of their torches, eyes fevered and face haggard. “Who dares defile God’s temple?”

Enjolras couldn’t even speak. He shoved the priest aside and entered what looked to be the main room. Even in the cold, he could smell rotting flesh.

“They’re dead,” Courfeyrac whispered. “Enjolras…Enjolras –”

“Look for survivors,” Enjolras managed to say, voice miraculously steady. There were holes at knee-height blocked by cage doors, and corpses inside them. Against the far wall were similar bars over holes carved into a shelf of rock.

A cry made him turn. A woman in one of the cells on the ground was reaching through the bars to Courfeyrac, some sort of metal bridle clamped to her head, gagging her mouth. As Feuilly made to strike the lock of the cage off, one of the priests rushed him. “This is a holy place!” He barely finished his protest before Courfeyrac stabbed him, shoving the body to the floor with a noise of disgust.

“Filth.”

“There was a man of God,” the priest who had been walled in whispered, and Courfeyrac turned on him.

“Not my god!”

 _Nor mine_ , Enjolras thought, breaking the lock of the first hole-cell and lifting the bars. There was a body inside, withered and blue, curled up like a foetus. The cells weren’t big enough for more. Worse than coffins. There was a child in the next one, limbs thin as twigs, frozen in death. Behind him, the woman Courfeyrac had freed began to sob, and Enjolras lifted the bars on the third hole.

The man inside looked right back at Enjolras, too weak to do more than take shallow breaths. Enjolras thrust his torch at Feuilly. “This one’s alive. I won’t hurt you,” he added, quieter, and reached in to slide a hand under the man’s arm, pulling gently. Despite the cold, he felt something on his back – a trickle of sweat under his armour.

The man’s eyes closed as he was pulled out, pained sounds slipping from his mouth as Enjolras lifted him up onto the rock and then lifted him into his arms. The man’s bones creaked in protest, and he cried out as one of his legs was jostled. How long had he been in that cell? How long had he been crushed into that unforgiving space, unable to stretch more than a finger-length in any direction? Long enough for him to have a short, scruffy beard. A growth of more than two weeks, at least.

Enjolras tried to be as gentle as he could going up the stairs, and shouted as soon as they emerged into the open air. “Water! Combeferre, I need water!” He carried the man over to where Bahorel and Jehan were holding their horses, and knelt carefully to lay the man on the ground. Combeferre was there a moment later with a skin of water, holding the man’s head up so he could drink.

The woman they’d rescued screamed when she was led out, and Enjolras barely turned in time to catch her as she flew at him. “Aire!” she cried, yellow hair flying in Enjolras’ face, her skinny arms reaching out…to the man on the ground, Enjolras realised, and let go, shifting back so she could take his place. Her hands fluttered over the man’s sunken chest and waxy skin, and a moment later she bent to kiss his forehead.

“Picts,” Bahorel said from above them, looking down from his horse. “They’re Picts.”

It didn’t matter, Enjolras was about to say, but was interrupted by Antonius’ shout. “Stop what you are doing! They are sinners, pagans – it is God’s will that they be sacrificed. That man is a sodomite, the woman a pagan whore!”

Enjolras only realised he’d punched the man in the face when Antonius fell to the ground. It was like the cold had sunk into his bones, obscuring everything but the razor point of whatever he was looking at. Everything beyond that was a blur. Courfeyrac pulled him away, but they both turned when the priest who had been locked below with the torture victims spoke.

“I was there willingly, to lead them to their rightful place. It is God’s will that these creatures die. Surely you understand? Are you not Christian too?”

Enjolras swallowed, and his voice trembled when he finally spoke. “You heard him,” he said, speaking to his men. “He was there willingly. Put him back.”

“My pleasure.” Courfeyrac’s face was grim, and he ignored Combeferre shouting his name in favour of seizing the priest’s robes and dragging him back underground.

He reappeared when Combeferre was helping Enjolras lift the man they’d rescued into a covered wagon with the woman. It was only the three of them as Combeferre clenched a fist of Courfeyrac’s cloak in his hand and whispered, “Tell me you killed him. Tell me you didn’t lock him up to starve to death slowly.”

Enjolras watched as Courfeyrac curled his hand around Combeferre’s and uncurled the fingers gently, lifting them to his lips. “For you, I gave him the death he didn’t deserve,” he said, and Combeferre sagged with relief.

If sodomy was a sin, then Enjolras’ faith was broken long ago. How could anything like the love his soulmates had for each other be anything but holy? Their godmarks were gifts from heaven, proof that they were meant to journey through life together. Bound since childhood, their mark was still the most beautiful Enjolras had ever seen. God had given them marks as a divine blessing. The God Enjolras knew would not twist such a blessing by condemning the love that grew as a result.

~

He’d snuck down to the village outside the Roman fort to visit Bevan. Grantaire had been in the process of kissing his way down Bevan’s chest when they were caught, and the village boy turned on him immediately. Grantaire could hardly blame him. He wouldn’t wish this punishment on anyone.

Well. Maybe on the priests who were meting it out.

The metal thing his fingers were clamped into twisted, and he screamed in pain, sweating despite the bone-deep cold of the underground prison they’d taken him to. The priest in charge whispered something gently in Latin. Grantaire could only understand a few words – sin, confess, soul. He whimpered and turned his face away, and howled again as the metal torture device twisted, twisted, until something in his finger gave way with a horrible little crack.

“Mercy!” he gibbered, one of the only Latin words he knew. “Please, mercy, no –”

Those words again – confess, confess. Grantaire’s tears were cold and sticky on his cheeks as he was released and dumped in a cell at ground level. He thought for a moment that there was someone else in there, but a chance flicker of one of the torches illuminated the person’s face, and Grantaire squirmed away. He was sharing a prison with a corpse. Likely, he was looking at his own future.

The darkness stretched on. There was no way of telling how much time was passing down in the pit, and Grantaire curled up in a corner and shivered, too cold and in too much pain to sleep. Three of the fingers on his right hand were crooked, and the slightest movement of his wrist set them ablaze with agony.

Later, perhaps as much as a day later, he was dragged out again and put in an iron collar, his wrists in manacles, chains holding him up on his knees. The first priest had been joined by two more, and they pulled his legs out and said things he didn’t understand. When the first priest brought out a heavy-looking ball on the end of a thinner chain, Grantaire started to struggle. When it was swung to hit him between his legs, he vomited.

Punishment for lying with another man, he realised later, back in the cell with the corpse. He was sick, but there was nothing left in his stomach to throw up, and everything hurt. If he was lucky, he would die soon. They’d left a bowl of water in the cell this time and he drank it all, hating himself for prolonging his fate.

“Let me die,” he whispered to the cold earth against his cheek. “Nemenma, please, let it end.” Could the goddess of death and burial hear him? He was as close to her as he’d ever been, trapped below the surface in what was supposed to be her domain, but he couldn’t feel her presence. He couldn’t feel anything except the cold and the pain. Perhaps the priests had spells that isolated their prison from the rest of the world, like a cup pushed rim-first into water, keeping air trapped inside.

He was taken out again, dragged along the ground and beaten, his other hand fitted into the finger-twister. He couldn’t even scream anymore. All they got out of him were sobs and pleas for mercy.

He slept in the cell with the corpse, exhaustion claiming him. It was shattered when something banged outside, and a woman’s furious screams echoed down to the pit. Grantaire crawled to the bars of his cage and found air to shout when he saw who it was. “Cosette, no! Run! Get out, go!”

“Grantaire!” She reached for him as she was dragged past, but the priests kept her away. Grantaire hurled himself against the bars like an animal, using the last of his strength.

“Let her go! Mercy, please! Let her go!”

They chained her up and stripped her naked, her outraged screams the loudest thing Grantaire had heard for days. Her jewellery was taken, her bondmarks examined. One of the priests looked over at Grantaire and shook his head, gesturing to his neck. Grantaire’s bond to Éponine was marked on the side of his neck, a looping knot of black lines. But Cosette’s bond to Éponine was yellow and red, a large knotwork pattern across her chest, just below her collarbones, and the mark she shared with their chieftain, Valjean, was a dark pink blooming pattern on her upper right arm.

If he and Cosette were spiritbound, would the priests have acted differently?

Impossible to know. Cosette took his place in the cell on the floor, and Grantaire passed out from the pain of his groin being kicked again as he was dragged out. When he woke, he was in a trap worse than before. A tiny, rough hole, just big enough for him to have been stuffed in with his knees pressed to his chest, his arms trapped between them. When he looked up, he could just make out a circle covered with bars. The rock had him in a vice. No matter which way he moved, it kept him still, trapped, stuck. He could barely draw enough breath to scream, but once he’d started, he couldn’t stop.

Cosette shouted back, begging him to calm down. “Éponine will come for us!” she yelled, but Grantaire couldn’t see her, didn’t even know if she was real. “Grantaire, she’ll rescue us, she’ll kill everyone and save us. Stay alive for her! Grantaire, please!”

The priests murmured, and Cosette snarled threats and oaths before they did something and she stopped speaking, wordless sounds of frustration trailing off into silence. And Grantaire was alone again, squeezed and pressed in the dark.

After that, he drifted in a fog of cold and pain. His legs and joints cramped and burned, making him groan like a tortured beast until his throat grew so dry he couldn’t even do that. All he could do was pray for it to end, and hope that the gods could hear him outside this hole of rock the priests had imprisoned him in. He forgot Cosette. He forgot Éponine. He drifted, and waited to die.

 

Light in the dark, and voices breaking the drone of the priest’s chanting. Had Romans come to see the work of their god in action? Metal screeched, and the voices were so loud they rattled his skull, the echoes bouncing around his tiny cell. The pain had almost gone, overtaken by the ever-present cold, but Grantaire forced his head to tilt back, squinting against the brightness above.

A hand, lifting the bars away, and a face he could barely see, haloed with hair as gold as Cosette’s. The light of new torches glinted off the man’s armoured shoulders and chest, and he said something in Latin as he reached down into Grantaire’s cell and slid a hand under his arm, pulling him up. 

Fire ignited in Grantaire’s joints, and he shuddered in pain as the man brought him out of his tomb and lifted him into his arms. The world span, strange figures dancing around the little prison, men smelling of horses and blood, and Grantaire’s eyes fell closed as he let the Roman carry him out. Maybe he was dead, and they were carrying him out to bury him in the true earth, where Nemenma could find him and release his spirit into the next world.

The air outside felt like a warm breeze, the sky so bright Grantaire had to squeeze his eyes shut, turning his face against the breastplate of the soldier who had picked him up. The man shouted as they went further into the day, into life. A word Grantaire actually knew – water, water.

His hips and back groaned as Grantaire was lowered to the ground, but then there was water at his lips, a hand holding his head up to trickle it down his throat in little dribbles so he wouldn’t choke. Iasulata had answered his prayers, not Nemenma. Water instead of burial. Life instead of death. Had he been able to, he would have wept.

“Aire! Grantaire, Grantaire!” Cosette was there suddenly, her lips on his forehead, taking the skin of water and cradling him close to her so he could drink more. “You’re alive,” she cried, tears dripping from her cheeks. “I thought you were _dead_ , you stopped making any noise, I was so scared.”

Grantaire tried to smile, his lips cracking, and she gave a little sob and dipped to kiss his forehead again. She stayed by him as he was lifted into a wagon, and gave him water and tiny morsels of mashed food. Soothed by the steady rocking of the wood around them, the creak of the planks and the sound of the wind, Grantaire slept in her lap.

 

When he woke, Cosette stroked his hair and massaged warmth into his knees, which he still couldn’t straighten. His body had been curled up so long, it had tried to stick there. Trying to unbend hurt too much to bear. They had been rescued, Cosette told him, by a group of soldiers sent from the wall to take Antonius and his family back south before a Saxon raiding party arrived. The mounted soldiers had ordered the evacuation of the village as well, and they’d killed the priests that had tortured people in the underground prison.

“They’re not like other Romans,” she whispered in the dark. “Their leader hit Antonius when he told them we were sinners. I don’t think they’re Christian like the others.”

She chewed dried meat until it was soft and fed the mush to him, lying down behind him to fit their bodies together under one fur, sharing her warmth. “You should go,” he breathed, scared of being overheard. “You’re still strong, you should leave while you can. You should never have come for me in the first place.”

Cosette squeezed him, an angry huff of air chilling the back of his neck. “Idiot. I’m not going until you can come with me. There’s no danger now.”

“They’re Romans,” Grantaire insisted. “They’re always dangerous.”

“Not these ones. They saved our lives, Grantaire. Sleep, and get strong again.”

He obeyed, so tired he didn’t even dream.

Voices woke him, Cosette and an unfamiliar man with a strange accent.

“Are you his…ah, I don’t know your word for it. Soulmate?”

Grantaire turned his head and saw the soldier with the gold hair sitting opposite Cosette, who had placed herself between them as a protector. As he watched, the soldier unbuckled the armguard around his wrist and showed Cosette a bondmark below his elbow. “We call them godmarks,” he explained and looked at Grantaire, who flinched under his eyes. “And those who bear matching godmarks are soulmates.”

Cosette shifted back and touched Grantaire’s shoulder, checking that he was alright before she looked at the soldier again. “No, we are unbound, but a bond apart – not spiritbound; skinbound.” The soldier frowned, and she pulled down the neck of her shirt to show him her bondmark. “This is mine to Éponine.” She helped Grantaire to sit up. “Can I show him yours?” she whispered so the soldier couldn’t hear. He nodded, and she settled beside him. “Éponine is bound to Grantaire as well, here.” Grantaire turned his face into her hair and let her brush fingers over the side of his neck, showing the soldier the bondmark he shared with Éponine. “So we are skinbound,” she said it slowly, so the soldier would understand, “but not spiritbound.”

The soldier nodded. “I understand. Thank you.” He paused, then asked, “Is there anything you need? One of my soulmates is good at mending bones and healing cuts.”

Cosette met Grantaire’s eyes. “Your fingers.”

Two on his left hand and three on his right were still twisted and unmovable, bruised purple, black, and green. Still, he didn’t want any more Romans anywhere near him. The soldier in the wagon was close enough. He leaned forward as Grantaire hesitated.

“What’s wrong with your fingers?”

“Some are out of place,” Cosette explained, pushing the fur down and guiding Grantaire’s arm up to show him. Grantaire pushed himself against the back wall of the wagon to keep the distance between him and the soldier, and the soldier pursed his lips.

“Combeferre can fix that. I promise it will be quick,” he added, looking at Grantaire. “If they’re not mended, you might lose them.”

“Please, Grantaire,” Cosette whispered. “I’ll kill him if he hurts you, you know I will.”

After a painfully long moment, Grantaire nodded. The wagon swayed as the soldier got out of it, and he pressed himself against Cosette’s side. “How does he know our language?”

“His name is Enjolras. He said his mother taught him.”

“What was her name?”

“I didn’t ask.” She kissed his temple. “We’re going to be alright. As soon as you’re strong enough, we’ll go."

Combeferre, it turned out, was a dark-skinned Roman with a pleasant smile and a soft voice. Cosette sat behind Grantaire while Combeferre took his left hand carefully, and Enjolras translated when Combeferre said to take deep breaths.

Grantaire ended up with his face pressed against Combeferre’s armoured shoulder, unsuccessfully biting back cries of pain as his fingers were pushed back into their sockets and straightened out, each knuckle tested to make sure they were in properly. Tears trickled from the corners of his eyes by the time Combeferre was done and he and Enjolras left, and Cosette helped him lie down again, whispering poetry to try and distract him from the ache in his hands. The aches in his hips and knees and back were bad enough, and now there was more pain than ever.

Later that day, Cosette asked for water and cloths. Clamping the jug between her legs, she washed herself, and then bullied Grantaire into sitting so she could wash him as well. “You’re filthy,” she huffed, wet hair freshly braided in a rope down her back. “Come on, one bit at a time.” Grantaire gave up on protests and let her work, starting from his feet and working her way up, drying and covering each bit when she finished it. He was still shivering by the time she helped him pull his shirt off, and when she gasped he thought it was because of the bruises he knew he had.

“Is it bad?” he asked, twisting his head to try and see. “Cosette?”

“You have a new mark,” she whispered, and Grantaire jumped as she touched his lower back, to the right of his spine. “A new spiritbond.”

Grantaire’s mind went white. “No. No, no I can’t,” he breathed, throat tightening. “Cosette, I can’t, I can’t, I haven’t…” The only new people who had touched him were the priests, the monsters in the underground prison, their hands beating him, hurting him, trapping him. What sort of creature did it make him if he was bound to a person like that?

“Enjolras or Combeferre,” Cosette said, breaking him out of his panic. “It has to be one of them.” She paused and leaned forward to look at his face, eyes narrow. “Did you think it would be one of the priests?” Grantaire’s silence said enough, and she made a furious sound and hugged him tightly. “ _No_. You would never be bound to…to a _demon_. It’s one of these Romans, and they just haven’t realised yet.”

“I don’t want it,” Grantaire gasped. “I don’t want to be bound to a Roman, they murder people like us. I want Éponine, I want to go _home_.” He started to cry, and Cosette covered him back up with the fur, rocking him gently until he quieted. Once his hiccups had passed, Cosette pulled herself away and finished washing him, scrubbing his back and chest and arms clean again, combing dirt and dust and muck from his hair with her fingers and taking a sharp blade to his face to shave off his filthy beard.

They were curled close under the fur, just drifting at the edge of sleep, when a familiar war-cry shattered the calm of the afternoon. Grantaire barely had time to sit up before Cosette was pushing him back down and shouting, “Stay here!” before jumping out of the wagon. He’d told her to leave, yes, but he hadn’t wanted her to. He struggled up to the front of the wagon and pushed the covering aside.

He hadn’t realised how many people the Romans had evacuated, or that they’d taken the mountain road instead of the more direct route south. The villagers were screaming and the Romans were shouting, and there were Votads in the trees. His people. And if they were here, that meant –

“Éponine!” Cosette’s shriek was startling, and Grantaire saw her running barefoot towards a woman holding a Roman solder in front of her, her knife at his throat. Her hair was loose, hiding the mark on her neck, but it was her. Grantaire hauled himself out of the wagon and hissed as he let his legs take his weight. He was only wearing a thin shirt and trousers, and the cold clawed at his skin as he tottered forward to where Cosette was persuading Éponine to let the soldier go.

“They saved us,” she cried. “They gave us food and water, they fixed Grantaire’s fingers, please, they’re helping us.”

“Make them swear it,” Éponine snapped, jerking the Roman’s head back threateningly. “On their bonds, make them swear it.”

Cosette beckoned Enjolras forward, and he nodded. “I am commander here,” he said slowly, his accent rough in their tongue. “We swear no harm will come to your friends. On our…bonds.” He stumbled over the unfamiliar word, and Grantaire forced himself forward one step at a time, shooting pains going up from his knees to his hips with every movement.

Finally, Éponine shoved the Roman away and Cosette threw herself forward to take his place, clinging to Éponine’s shoulders. Éponine hugged her back, breathing her in, and she looked up and gasped just as Grantaire’s knees gave out and he crashed to the ground. He cried out as his hand flew out instinctively to break his fall, the bones jarring, and he kept his head bowed as Éponine ran over.

“Forgive me,” he begged, all the guilt he’d carried since Cosette had come for him and been captured bursting out in his voice. “I’m so sorry, Éponine, it was all my fault, it was my fault, forgive me, please…” If he hadn’t been so weak and hungry for release in another man’s arms, Cosette would never have been taken. She was Éponine’s lover, the princess of their tribe, and for his sake she had almost died. And what was he? Nothing, nobody, his only redeeming quality the mark he shared with Éponine. “Forgive me, it was all my fault.”

Éponine knelt in front of him and tilted his chin up to meet her eyes. It was the hardest thing in the world to meet her gaze, trembling with the effort of not looking away, and she stared at him for a long moment before touching the side of his neck. At the brush of her fingers against their bond, he sobbed, and she crushed him to her chest in a painful embrace.

“Idiot,” she hissed into his hair, pressing her lips against his neck. “Idiot, I was so scared. I’ll kill anyone who dared touch you.” There was nothing to forgive, her skin against his mark said. She loved him, and all she cared about was that he and Cosette were safe.

Cosette wrapped her arms around both of them, and whispered into Éponine’s ear. “Grantaire’s too weak to move, Ponine. We can’t go with you.” At Grantaire’s noise of protest, she stroked a hand down his spine. “There’s something else.”

“Don’t,” Grantaire whispered, but Cosette didn’t listen.

“He has a new bond. One of the Romans, we don’t know which.”

“I don’t care,” Grantaire told them as they drew back, Éponine cupping his cheek. “I don’t want another bond, I just want to go home.”

“You just collapsed.” Éponine pursed her lips and she and Cosette helped Grantaire to his feet, charitably ignoring his gasp of pain. “You can’t come back with us, so we’ll stay with you. I’ll send Joly back to tell Valjean.” 

“It’s not safe.” Grantaire gripped her wrist as tightly as he could, trying to ignore the shooting pains in his injured fingers. “They’re running from Saxons.”

“We owe them our lives.” Cosette straightened, her voice deepening. “We’ll protect them as thanks.”

~

Combeferre had only ever cursed in Enjolras’ hearing twice before, both times while he had been reprimanding Enjolras for recklessness in battle. When Combeferre swore as Enjolras pulled the back of his shirt up (the skin at the bottom of his back was warm, and he worried he had an infected cut or a rash), he whirled around. “What? What is it?” Had he been wrong to wait till they made camp for the night to raise the issue?

Combeferre pushed him back into position and slid his shirt up again, fingertips light as feathers on his spine. “Enjolras…”

“ _What?_ Is it a cut?”

“It’s a godmark.”

Enjolras twisted his head, straining to see. Amazingly, there was something. Black lines to the right of his spine, above his belt. It was large, a pattern enclosed in a circle, and the air rushed out of him all at once. He had to gasp before he could speak. “Are you sure?”

“You didn’t have this when we left the wall. Enjolras, who have you touched since then? Skin to skin?”

Enjolras rubbed the mark, trying to think. Not counting his soldiers…he had punched Antonius, but he dismissed that idea immediately. Who else? Both Picts, he realised. He’d been the one to carry the man out of the dungeon, and he’d caught the woman in his arms when she tried to get to her…what had she called their connection? Skinbound? Cosette and Grantaire, he remembered. Soulmates to the Pict woman who had stormed their camp.

“It’s one of the Picts,” he told Combeferre.

“Which one?” Combeferre pushed his hand out of the way so he could help Enjolras back into his armour.

Enjolras hesitated, but he was sure of the answer. “The man. Grantaire.”

“Go talk to him. I’ll tell Courfeyrac,” he added before Enjolras could protest. “This is important, Enjolras. This could change everything.”

Perhaps it was in his blood. Enjolras walked through the dark in a daze, thinking of his father, remembering what he could of his mother. But his mother had been a Brigantes woman, her village coexisting peacefully with the nearby Roman fort. Grantaire was a Pict, one of the wild, hostile savages from the tribes that had driven the Romans back to the wall again and again. The Empire had never gained a strong foothold in the north beyond the wall, and that was down to people like Grantaire, like Éponine, like Cosette.

And he shared a godmark with one of them.

Despite his misgivings, he approached the wagon quickly. The godmark he shared with Courfeyrac and Combeferre had been visible the second it appeared, and they had all grown closer to examine them, exclaiming with wonder and pleasure. He’d still been a boy commander, new to his post, and their godmarks had cemented his position among them and been celebrated.

A new godmark opened up opportunities for friendship and companionship. It was God’s way of telling people that they were meant to be together, their destinies entwined for the rest of their lives. That they could learn from each other and teach each other and be happier in their presence.

When he knocked on the wood of the wagon, Éponine was the one who drew back the cover to glare at him. “What?”

“I need to talk to your soulmates.”

She narrowed her eyes and leaned back into the gloom behind her. “It’s the piss-head.”

Enjolras translated that just in time to open his mouth in outrage, but Cosette came forward to touch Éponine’s shoulder, urging her to get out. Enjolras stood back to let them jump down, and straightened without actually meaning to when Cosette looked up at him. He knew now that she was the princess of her tribe, and it showed in her bearing.

“What did you want to talk about?” she asked calmly.

Enjolras had to pause, ordering the words in his head before speaking. “Do you or…” He stopped, shook his head, started again. “Does Grantaire have a new godmark? On his back?”

She jerked her head for him to go into the wagon, and his heart leapt, elated that he’d got it right. “We’ll be here,” she said. It wasn’t quite a threat, but it was close enough to make him cautious as he clambered in.

Grantaire was sat at the end, huddled in a fur. His eyes caught the light coming in from the wagon’s entrance, wide and wary, and Enjolras settled a little way back from him, not wanting to crowd. He’d washed and shaved since Enjolras had last seen him, his exposed chin and cheeks making him look much younger. “I don’t know if I introduced myself before,” Enjolras said slowly, tripping a little over the words. The language of the Picts and Celts was harder than Latin, with no written form to help him remember the rules of pronunciation. “My name is Enjolras.”

Grantaire shifted, pushing himself up into a straighter position before he answered. “I am Grantaire.”

Hearing him say it, even if it was something Enjolras already knew, was strangely thrilling, and he couldn’t help leaning forward and repeating it. “Grantaire. Grantaire, I wanted to ask…” He stopped, swallowed. “You call them bonds, yes? Do you…on your back, is there…”

“It’s you.” Grantaire’s eyebrows were drawn together, and Enjolras’ excitement faltered. “We, I didn’t know,” Grantaire explained, frowning unhappily at his knees. “If it was you or the other one. The one who fixed my fingers.”

“Combeferre. He’s one of my soulmates, so that makes you…skinbound?”

Grantaire turned his face away, and Enjolras sank back, shoulders dropping as he realised what was wrong. “You don’t want me.” It came out in whispered Latin, and Grantaire looked sharply at him, so Enjolras had to repeat it in his language. “You don’t want me.”

Why should it hurt so much, to be rejected by a man who was practically a stranger? Perhaps _because_ they were strangers, and Grantaire was pushing him away before even giving him a chance. It stung either way, and Enjolras frowned, wishing for the easy comfort of Combeferre and Courfeyrac.

“You don’t understand,” Grantaire muttered, almost too low and fast for Enjolras to understand. “You’re a Roman.”

“So?” He covered his hurt with offence, drawing away.

“Roman.” Grantaire’s mouth twisted, and he spat a word Enjolras didn’t know, but felt sure was an insult. “Roman, how many of my people have you killed?”

The cold was always close up in the mountains, and Enjolras pulled it around himself like a shield, making his face a mask, his voice a whip. “As many as tried to kill me.”

“Romans are thieves,” Grantaire said, glaring at him, and Enjolras laughed, humourless and unkind.

“Your people tried to raid a supply wagon not one month ago, and you say we’re the thieves?”

“You steal our land and kill us when we try to take what we can to keep from starving!” Grantaire looked away, slumping against the back of the wagon as though the words had drained his strength. “You don’t understand,” he said again, almost a whisper. “I have nothing, nothing except this.” He touched the godmark on his neck. “My bond to Éponine, which is made better for her bond to Cosette. I’m not a warrior, no good at riding or hunting. I’m a _farmer_ – worse! I’m a farmer with no land or cattle.” His eyes, when they met Enjolras’, were utterly defeated. “And now I’m bound to a _Roman_. Enemy of my people, my parents, their parents, their parents before them.”

Enjolras frowned, trying to get his head around everything Grantaire had just said. “Made better…are your godmarks part of a…ah…” He gestured helplessly with his hands, trying to think if there was a word for hierarchy in Grantaire’s tongue. “A ladder? A ladder of people?”

Grantaire looked baffled, but said, “Order? Like, chieftain, warrior, hunter…”

“Yes.” Enjolras nodded. “Your godmarks are part of the order of your tribes?”

“Of course.” Grantaire frowned at him. “Like family. A chieftain’s brother is of high rank; he is not no one. So those the chieftain is bound to in spirit are important as well.”

Put like that, it made sense. Enjolras nodded. “So being bound to me…lowers your rank.”

Grantaire snorted. “I am buried.” At Enjolras’ quizzical look, he sighed. “Below the dirt, I’m so low? It’s something we say.”

An expression. Enjolras nodded again, thinking of what he wanted to say in Latin before he translated it and formed the words. “I am a Roman, but that doesn’t make me a bad person. We share a godmark, whether you like it or not.” 

Grantaire sighed and shrank into his fur, turning his face away. Enjolras regarded him in silence, trying to memorise the details of his face. Grantaire’s skin was pale, like all the Picts, stretched taut and thin over his bones after his torture and starvation in Antonius’ dungeon. He looked fragile, liable to shatter at a touch. The cold couldn’t be helping, but he didn’t look like he was about to die. Still, Enjolras resisted the urge to lean forward and push the fur up to cover Grantaire’s neck a little better.

Had it been Combeferre or Courfeyrac, he wouldn’t have thought twice about following through on the impulse, but Grantaire was different. Skittish and wary and a Pict. They were enemies, but godmarks were divine, and God cared nothing for boundaries of land and culture. All people were His children, after all. Perhaps this was a sign?

“Grantaire?”

Enjolras turned as Éponine pushed the flap of the wagon covering aside and gave Enjolras a suspicious look. “Are you well?”

“Tired,” Grantaire muttered, and Enjolras turned back to bow his head.

“I’ll leave you. Thank you, for seeing me. I hope…” He hesitated to order the words, mouthed them a few times to be sure he was getting them right. “I hope you will judge me for my actions alone, rather than the actions of all Romans.” He slid backwards and climbed out of the wagon, nodding to Éponine and Cosette before going back to his soldiers.

Courfeyrac hugged him as soon as he saw him, and pressed a kiss to his forehead when they drew apart. His eyes were serious though, and Enjolras understood the look in them – Courfeyrac was happy for him, but wanted him to be careful. The others were more reserved, but Marius at least gave him a smile. Feuilly’s lips were tight, however, and Bahorel scowled.

“A Pict?” he hissed as soon as Enjolras sat down at the fire. “What the fuck is your god thinking?" 

“Perhaps that I should follow my father’s example,” Enjolras said mildly, and turned to Combeferre. “Any word from Jehan?”

“Not yet. He should be back soon though.”

“Your mother was Brigantes though,” Marius said. “What’s this Pict’s name?”

“Grantaire.” It slipped out before Enjolras could still his tongue, and he caught the edge of Combeferre’s smile. “It might be a sign from God,” he added. “That not all Picts need to be our enemies.”

Feuilly snorted and shook his head, and Bahorel rolled his eyes. “Look around, Enjolras. Does Rome’s god live here? He’d freeze his holy bollocks off up on these mountains.”

Enjolras’ lips twitched despite himself, and he looked away. The mountain rose up to their right, a sharp drop on the left of their narrow path. They were stretched too thin along the road, which was scarcely wide enough for the wagons in places. There weren’t enough soldiers to guard the villagers, though at least Éponine’s Picts were no longer a threat. Which left only the Saxons at their backs, probably moving a great deal faster than they were.

Snow had been falling in flurries since they’d left Antonius’ fort, and if they weren’t on a proper road by tomorrow they’d be dangerously slowed by the necessity of shovelling their way clear. And now Enjolras shared a new godmark with a Pict.

“What will happen when we reach the road?” Feuilly asked. His voice was quiet, but the wind carried it to Enjolras and the others. “Will your Pict return to his people, or come with us to the wall?”

It was different for the southern tribes who had struck deals with the Romans. Grantaire would be alone on the wall if he came back with Enjolras, and surrounded by Roman soldiers who had lost friends and comrades to the Picts. He would be attacked, bullied, perhaps even killed. Enjolras shook his head at the thought, a chill that had nothing to do with the snow running through him. He’d only known Grantaire a few days, only known they shared a godmark for an hour, and already he wanted to keep Grantaire safe. His protective streak had always run deep.

“He can’t come to the wall,” Combeferre said when Enjolras looked away. “He wouldn’t last two weeks, especially with the state he’s in now.” He gave him an uncharacteristically grave look. “You know he can’t come with us, Enjolras.”

“I know.”

Courfeyrac reached over and squeezed his arm. “Unless this sparked a peace. Grantaire’s soulmate is the Pictish princess, yes?”

“No.” Enjolras sighed as Courfeyrac’s face fell. “No, his soulmate is Éponine, the woman who attacked us, and _her_ soulmate is the princess. Grantaire told me he’s low in their tribe’s hierarchy. He’s a farmer, not a warrior.”

“Fuck. Well, you rescued the princess too, didn’t you? Surely that counts for something?”

“She’s ordered her warriors to protect us now,” Combeferre reminded him. “That’s how she’s paying her debt. If it weren’t for her, we’d be dead already from Éponine’s attack.”

Courfeyrac cursed again, and looked at Enjolras after thinking for a moment. “Are you fixed on staying with Grantaire?”

“I want to learn about him,” Enjolras bent closer to the fire, leaning his elbows on his thighs. “Like when our marks first came. I want that closeness with him, too.” He could sense the two of them exchanging a glance over his head, and sighed. “A godmark is a sign that our lives should be on the same path. Why would I want to lose him now?”

“It might not be a bad thing,” Courfeyrac suggested, trying a new angle. “He didn’t warm to you, am I right? Because you’re a Roman?” Enjolras huffed, and that was all the answer Courfeyrac needed. “Perhaps it’s better this way. You could find each other again after the snows melt, if you still want his company.”

“We could be dead by then,” Enjolras snapped. “He could be dead by then. We could be recalled to Rome, or Gaul. There could be illness, festered wounds, accidents. I don’t want to wait; we might not have the time later. I want to know him now.”

Combeferre shook his head. “We’ll be down this mountain in another day or so, and then we’ll find the road back to the wall. It’s his decision too, Enjolras.”

But Grantaire would choose to go with Éponine and Cosette. What would Enjolras do then?

The sound of a horse approaching at a canter made them all turn, and Jehan pulled up by their tethered horses, his own mount snorting and panting. “They’ll be on us by morning if we stay here; we have to keep going,” he said as he slid from the saddle, the rest of them getting to their feet. “These villagers have slowed us too much, Enjolras. The Saxons will butcher them when they catch up.”

“They won’t catch up.” Enjolras nodded to Feuilly and Bahorel. They nodded back and strode away to get the camp moving, and Marius started kicking dirt over the fire.

“Unless our new Woad friends have an extra thousand warriors or so stashed in their forests, even they won’t be able to help,” Jehan snapped, patience worn thin by hours of riding. “And we know they’re effectively useless in organised close combat anyway, and Saxons are good at that.”

“In other news, Enjolras has a new godmark,” Courfeyrac said casually. Jehan’s expression twisted from frustration to shock.

“What? With who?”

“With one of our new Woad friends.” Combeferre gave him a wry smile. “The man from Antonius’ dungeon. Enjolras carried him out, remember?”

Jehan let out a long stream of curses that ended with him spitting on the ground. “You’re fucked,” he told Enjolras. “And you know this problem has to come second to the massive Saxon army tramping up our arses. Do you want to bed him?”

It was probably thanks only to the freezing wind that Enjolras didn’t blush. “Of course I don’t!” he spluttered. _It’s a sin_ , he had to bite back, mindful of his soulmates’ presence. He hadn’t had such a reaction for years, and he scowled at Jehan for bringing it to the surface.

Jehan shrugged and nodded at Combeferre and Courfeyrac. “I’ve wondered before whether you’d be inclined the way your soulmates are.”

Combeferre laid a restraining hand on Enjolras’ arm as he struggled to find a response. “Jehan, what happened to the Saxon army up our arses? Concentrate on that.”

Jehan huffed. “Fine. If they’re on our side for now, I need Woad scouts. They know these woods better than we do, and we need to get moving.”

Enjolras nodded. “Combeferre, go and tell Antonius and his household to dump anything unnecessary. Take Feuilly with you when you do. Courfeyrac, you and Marius join Bahorel to get everyone else on the road. Jehan, with me.” He led Jehan to Éponine, leaning against the wagon Cosette and Grantaire were in.

“Piss-head,” she grunted, narrowing her eyes as she looked up at him. “What do you want now?”

“Should I speak to you or Cosette about enlisting the help of your scouts?” Enjolras asked. She didn’t have to know he’d practiced the sentence on his way over. She frowned and jumped up onto the wagon, leaning inside.

“Cosette! They want our scouts.”

A moment later, Cosette pushed the covers of the wagon back. Éponine tied them in place, and Cosette frowned at Enjolras. “Is this about the Saxons?”

“They’ll be on us by morning unless we keep moving,” Enjolras told her, and gestured to Jehan. “This is my scout, Jehan.” Cosette took in Jehan’s tattoos and ratty braids with a long look Jehan met head-on.

“Éponine.” Cosette turned and Éponine nodded. “Joly’s not back, can they take Bossuet, do you think?”

“If they swear on their bonds he won’t be harmed,” Éponine decided, eyes flinty.

“Take them to him then.”

Éponine made a displeased noise, but slid down from the wagon and started to jog. Enjolras and Jehan had to trot to keep up, and Enjolras got the impression that Éponine could have kept running at this steady lope for hours. She was like a wolf in human skin.

Bossuet was a bald Pict with a long braided beard and a sunburst godmark on his forehead. Enjolras frowned at it, sure it looked familiar, and a furious hiss interrupted Éponine’s introduction. A woman spat at him, the same red circle on her forehead, and the memory rushed back – the attack on the food wagon. This woman was the Pict he’d spared.

“Friendly,” Jehan muttered, sliding down off his horse as the woman’s soulmate pulled her away, presumably to explain. Enjolras joined him on the ground and they walked alongside Éponine, who explained.

“Bossuet is bound to Musichetta. They are both bound to our other scout, Joly, but he’s gone back to tell Cosette’s father of her safety.”

She blinked in surprise as Bossuet returned and forced them to come to a stop by kneeling in front of Enjolras. “You spared her,” he said, tongue almost too thick for Enjolras to understand. From the treeline, Musichetta scowled. “You spared her life, Roman. Anduinnen’s blessings be with you, always, for what you have given us. You saved three lives, not one." 

Enjolras left Jehan to better acquaint himself with Bossuet and rode back to the wagon while Éponine remained with Musichetta. His soldiers had been swift – the fires were already out and people were hitching horses and mules to wagons and carts. Cosette and Grantaire’s was already trundling along, the two of them sitting at its mouth with their faces turned to the wind.

“Bossuet and Jehan are going ahead,” Enjolras told them, wheeling his horse to face the same direction as the wagon. “Éponine is with Musichetta.”

“I will go too.” Cosette jumped down and drew a cloak close around her as she began to jog up to the front of the train, leaving Enjolras with Grantaire.

“I should thank you,” Grantaire said after two long minutes of silence. Enjolras had been trying to find something to say, and looked over at him gratefully.

“What for?”

“At least if the Saxons kill us, I’ll die here rather than in that pit.”

Enjolras looked down, his hands numb in their gloves. “You should never have been in there.”

“No? I thought you were a Christian. What I did is a sin in the eyes of your god.”

“Laws are made by men.” Enjolras rubbed one hand over his forearm, over the spot where his godmark was. “I do not believe God condemns love when it harms no one and brings only joy.” Lamarque had always said that the Bible was written by men, not God, and that only God should be allowed to judge the souls of men. But for saying things like that, he had been excommunicated and killed. So what was Enjolras really supposed to think now?

Grantaire was silent, and when Enjolras looked over he found himself on the end of a frown. “You don’t sound like a Christian. Are you sure you are one?”

“I’m sure.” Enjolras shivered, and Grantaire laughed. Even in the dark, Enjolras could see his smile wrinkle his cheeks and the skin around his eyes, and he was breathtaken at the change it made in him.

“Your god is from a long way away, Roman. He doesn’t belong in my land.”

“God is everywhere.”

“Not here. I can’t hear him.” He cocked his head and listened. All Enjolras could hear was the ever-present wind through the trees, but Grantaire smiled as though hearing the voice of a friend. “Your god is greedy, just like you Romans. But he’s all on his own – how can he expect to come here when my gods already live here?”

Enjolras pursed his lips, the denial of Grantaire’s gods’ existence on the tip of his tongue. Grantaire shook his head, something between a smile and a smirk twisting his mouth.

“My gods live and breathe. I can hear and see them. Does your god speak to you?”

“Yes.” Enjolras frowned at him. “Of course He does.”

“Did he speak to the priests in the pit too?” Grantaire huddled into his fur. “They obviously thought they were doing what he wanted. Maybe he was there,” he added suddenly. “I couldn’t feel my gods there. I should’ve been able to hear Nemenma, but she wasn’t there. At least if I die out here, she’ll find me.”

A goddess of death, Enjolras assumed. Pagans had so many different gods, for so many different things. He nudged his horse closer to the wagon and tried to remember what the scout, Bossuet, had said. “Who is Andwinen?”

“Anduinnen?” Grantaire blinked. “Who –”

“Bossuet gave me Anduinnen’s blessings. What does that mean? Is Anduinnen a god?”

“Why did Bossuet say that?”

“I spared his soulmate’s life. Musichetta? She was one of the Woads – Picts – who attacked the food wagon a few weeks ago.”

Grantaire leaned back against the wall of the wagon and frowned, silent for so long that Enjolras worried he’d somehow offended him. “Anduinnen is a –” Grantaire said a word that sounded like goddess, but not quite, and Enjolras’ confusion must have shown. “Both god and goddess?” Grantaire explained. “Both and neither. Pure spirit. They are a smith, sometimes, and an artist and a bard, and also our breath and blood. They touch every child at birth and hide our bondmarks beneath our skin. Bossuet asked for Anduinnen to bless you because you kept his ceandàimh alive.”

“His what?”

“His ceandàimh. Ah…” Grantaire floundered, looking for the right words. “When people are bonded, usually more than two? Like a family.”

“Like you and Cosette and Éponine?”

Grantaire smiled, genuine and beautiful even on his gaunt face. “We’re craidàimh, not ceandàimh. Because Cosette and I share no bond. You understand?”

Enjolras nodded, trying the words out. Combeferre would be fascinated, he knew, by the way the Picts organised their lives and social circles according to their godmarks. If only they had more time, they could learn so much.

“We call them godmarks because we believe they come from God,” Enjolras told him. “And soulmates because you are mated in soul, if not in blood. It means you are meant to be together.”

Grantaire looked away, and Enjolras sighed. “You don’t understand,” Grantaire said after a while, so quiet Enjolras almost missed it.

“So you said before.”

“No, I mean…it’s the same as with Éponine, I’m not…” Grantaire wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “I am buried. No one else is spiritbound to me, my parents have been dead for years, I have no other family. I can’t kill, I can’t hunt, I can’t track, I can barely ride. I have nothing to offer you, Enjolras. Even if you weren’t…even if we could…” He sighed and closed his eyes. “I have nothing to give.”

Enjolras took a couple of deep breaths as he translated, sudden fire in his blood beating back the relentless cold. “Perhaps we think of the marks differently,” he said at last, speaking slowly to be sure Grantaire would understand. “It’s not about what you can offer your soulmate – this isn’t a negotiation, or a marriage. This is…it’s a gift. The mark itself is the gift. You don’t have to offer anything but yourself – you are more than enough, just you on your own.” He paused, struggling to phrase it without including God. “You are the gift. Soulmates give themselves, with nothing else in the way.”

There were entire songs and prayers and psalms about how godmarks were a gift from heaven, but Enjolras doubted Grantaire would appreciate them.

Grantaire stared at him, chapped lips parted. “Is that what your faith teaches?” he asked finally. “Or what you believe?”

“Both.” Enjolras wanted to step onto the wagon and clasp Grantaire’s hand, touch his pale skin and untangle his ink-black curls. He took a breath and said instead, “The marks mean the same thing whether they come from your gods or mine. It still means we’re meant to be connected. We are soulmates. _That_ is a gift, the opportunity there – to learn from someone else and teach them in return. To make each other better.” He was rarely so openly sentimental, but he believed every word he said.

Grantaire licked his lips, almost blue from the cold. “This won’t bring peace between our people. Just because you and I are bound.”

“A measure of peace could be achieved, surely.”

“Will Rome ever be full?” Grantaire shook his head and looked away. “It’s always hungry for more.”

“Your people drove Rome back.” It was treasonous to say so, but Enjolras urged his horse as close to the wagon as he could and waited until Grantaire met his eyes. “Rome is retreating. Its borders are stretched too thin, and there aren’t enough soldiers to defend them. This land will be yours again within a generation, if not less.”

Grantaire gaped, and coughed when he tried to speak. “Are you lying?” he croaked finally.

“No. The soldiers at the wall may be recalled south before next winter.”

“You too?”

Enjolras hesitated before replying. “Me too. You should get inside and stay warm.”

“But you’re finally getting interesting.” Grantaire narrowed his eyes. “Were you born here? Cosette said your mother taught you our language.”

Enjolras nodded. “Her father was one of your people, her mother of the Brigantes as she was. She taught me both tongues.”

“Then you could stay.” Grantaire looked down like he wanted to retract the words as soon as he spoke them, but when Enjolras didn’t object, he glanced up again. “Could you stay?”

“I would be a deserter if I did.” Enjolras sighed and shifted in his saddle. “As would my men. We are bound to service for another twelve years before we are allowed to retire.”

“Twelve!” Grantaire repeated, horrified. “Why?”

“It’s the law. Soldiers must serve for at least twenty-five years before they can retire, but when they do they are Roman citizens, and usually receive land or a pension.” Grantaire made a disgusted noise and started coughing again, and Enjolras shook his head and swung a leg over his saddle, stepping gracefully from stirrup to the wagon edge.

“You don’t need to –” Grantaire started, wheezing. Enjolras untied the cord holding back one of the wagon coverings and shook his head.

“Shut up. You’ll make yourself sick if you stay out in the wind, get back inside.”

Grantaire shuffled into the wagon and huffed. “Are you always so bossy?”

“Apart from when I’m sick, yes. I am a commander. When I’m sick you can boss me about, is that fair?” It was the sort of thing he would have said to Combeferre or Courfeyrac, and he looked away so he couldn’t see Grantaire’s expression. They wouldn’t be together long enough for Grantaire to see him when he was sick. They’d reach the road and be forced apart, for the winter if not for the rest of their lives.

It wasn’t _fair_.

“Stay warm,” he muttered, jumping out of the wagon without a backwards glance only to find his horse had stopped in her tracks when he’d dismounted. He jogged back to her and swung himself back into the saddle, turning her to the rear of their little train. It was too much to hope, he suspected, that he would see Grantaire’s godmark before they were parted. They had perhaps two days left, and all he knew of their matching mark was that it was large, circular, and black. When he touched Courfeyrac and Combeferre’s godmarks, they hummed in his head, reassuring warmth flowing under his skin. He prayed that he would get to find out what it felt like to touch Grantaire’s mark before they found the road back south.

~

Joly returned to them on a sturdy mountain pony, shaggy and surefooted in the snow. He came to Grantaire after reporting to Cosette, and he and Musichetta cuddled up either side of Grantaire under the furs and shared their warmth.

“We’re out of the forest now,” Joly whispered. “Or almost anyway. This road we’re on goes over a frozen lake, and that’s where we’ll hold the Saxons. If there’s time, we’ll try and break the ice behind us, but if not we’ll fight there so these people can get out of the mountains and back to the road.”

They could hear the drumming on the wind every so often now, and Grantaire shivered. “We should leave them to the Saxons,” Musichetta growled. “I don’t like us helping them.”

“They saved Cosette and Grantaire’s lives,” Joly reminded her. “And their commander –”

“Don’t,” she snapped. “If I have to hear one more word about how I should be grateful to that bastard for his cowardice, I’ll break something.”

Grantaire shifted. “He’s spiritbound to me now, you know.”

“Are you sure?” she sighed. “Could it be anyone else? Have you actually seen his bondmark?”

“Why would he lie? Besides.” Grantaire leaned his head on Joly’s shoulder. “I’d rather have him than one of the priests from the village.”

“I’m going to cut that boy’s balls off,” Musichetta said darkly. “The one you went down to see. What was his name?”

“Don’t hurt Bevan.”

“He should’ve told you to run the moment you arrived. I bet they paid him for turning you over.”

Grantaire hadn’t considered that possibility, and something unpleasant twisted in his stomach at the thought.

“We’ll be home soon,” Joly murmured, taking his hand and squeezing. “We can forget any of this happened.”

He and Musichetta had to leave before long, and Cosette came to take their place as night fell and the Votad trackers and scouts led the train of villagers and Romans through the mountains, their way lit only by a few torches.

“You should tell him to come with us,” Cosette whispered sleepily. “You can’t go to the wall, so he should come back with us. He’s half our blood anyway. Or half Brigantes, which is close enough." 

“He said his grandfather was a Pict. He probably doesn’t know which tribe though.” Grantaire sighed. “I like him.”

“He likes you too.” Cosette stroked his hair and kissed his cheek. “Go to sleep, Aire.”

They woke hours later when the cover on the wagon was pulled back and Enjolras climbed in. “Sorry,” he apologised as they stirred. “We’ve come to the lake, and they’re right behind us. You have to leave, now.”

“I’m staying.” Cosette sat up, eyes hard and determined. “I’m leading my people.”

Enjolras nodded and looked at Grantaire. “You have to go, or hide. They’ll kill you if they catch you.”

“I’m going to find Éponine.” Cosette jumped out of the wagon and disappeared, and Grantaire sat up and rubbed sleep from his eyes, squinting against the light. They were surrounded by snow, the white burning into his face. He startled when Enjolras laid a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. 

“Grantaire, you need to go. We can’t take the wagons across the ice; it’s too dangerous. Come on.” He urged Grantaire out of the wagon, and supported him when he stumbled.

“Fuck.” Grantaire shivered as the wind tore through him, and Enjolras pulled a fur from the wagon and draped it over his shoulders.

“Hurry, this way.” He wrapped an arm around Grantaire’s shoulders and led him away, out to the line of scared-looking people inching their way across the ice. The drums were booming now – it sounded like the Saxons were right around the corner.

“How many are there?” Grantaire managed to ask, the ice in the air catching in his throat.

“What?”

“How many Saxons?”

“Jehan judged around eight hundred, maybe nine.”

Grantaire’s stomach dropped. “You don’t have more than fifty.”

“Antonius needs his household guard.” Enjolras’ lip curled. “I’m sending Marius with them to make sure they stay on track, but my men are the only ones staying here.”

Grantaire gripped his arm, eyes wide. “But there are only _six_ of you.”

“Éponine said she would stay.” Enjolras placed his hand over Grantaire’s. He was wearing gloves, soft leather worn by years of use, and Grantaire wished suddenly that he wasn’t. “You can’t, Grantaire. You’re not a warrior, you said so yourself.”

“I can shoot a bow.” Badly, but Enjolras didn’t need to know that. Besides, it sounded like there was going to be no shortage of targets. “I’ll lean against a rock.”

“Grantaire –”

“Grantaire!” They both looked up as Cosette ran over, a sword buckled at her hip, a bow in her hand. “Theno is leading the ponies, you should go with him and hide, or make your way back home.”

Grantaire pulled himself away from Enjolras and prayed for his knees to stay steady. Thankfully, they did, and he was able to face Cosette with some dignity. “I’m staying here.”

“You are not,” she said, lips white, and he shook his head.

“If you die, I don’t want to live. I’m staying, and if you order me to leave, I’ll ignore you.”

She chewed on her lip, eyes narrow. “Éponine is going to kill you,” she said finally, and he relaxed. 

“I’d rather her than a Saxon.”

“You _can’t_.” He’d almost forgotten Enjolras, and when he looked the Roman looked torn between horror and fury. “You’ll be killed; at least the rest of us have a chance.”

“She’s my princess, and you’re not my commander.” Grantaire pulled his fur tighter around his shoulders. “I’m staying.” He took slow, careful steps as he walked away, following the trail through the snow to the gathering Votad warriors. Cosette caught up with him a moment later, forehead wrinkled.

“As your princess, I should be able to expect you to obey my orders.”

“Punish me if I survive.” Grantaire clenched his jaw to stop his teeth chattering. “In the meantime, I need a bow.”

Gavroche’s bow was the only one small enough for Grantaire to draw, embarrassingly, and Gavroche armed himself with rocks and a slingshot. “I’ll still kill more than you,” he said dismissively. 

As the Saxons approached the frozen lake, Grantaire took a deep breath. “I don’t know. I could fire randomly and still hit, there are so many of them.”

Enjolras’ soldiers were in the middle of their ragged line, red cloaks standing out among the furs and skins the Votads were wearing, and Grantaire planted his feet and tested the flexibility of his bow. He was still so weak, it was pathetic. He’d be lucky if he landed even one arrow.

The drumming stopped all at once, and at a bellow from one of them, an archer stepped forward to try the range. It fell short, clattering on the ice, and the Votads laughed, a couple of them pulling their trousers down to show their behinds to the enemy. Grantaire couldn’t help grinning, wondering what Enjolras thought of the display.

Musichetta hooted, and she, Éponine, and Cosette screamed a war cry across the lake that Grantaire and the others joined in with a second later. With the wind on their side, Joly stepped forward and loosed an arrow that hit one of the Saxons in the chest. Grantaire’s laughter faded as the man’s scream echoed over to them, and he remembered all at once why he was no good at this.

“Cross your eyes so they blur,” Éponine muttered, noticing immediately. “Don’t look at them, and just shoot.”

He swallowed and nodded. “I’ll be fine.”

“There are too many of them,” she said. “They’ll go through the ice.”

But they didn’t. They came forward slowly at first, then began to advance in a march, shouting in time with their steps. And as they got closer, their arrows began to find marks as well. Grantaire was shivering, throat tight as he notched and loosed arrows on automatic, everything in his body screaming at him to run. Enjolras shouted for the Votads to aim for the edges, to force the Saxons to cluster and concentrate their weight.

The ice boomed and cracked, but didn’t break. They were close enough for Grantaire to see their faces when one of Enjolras’ soldiers ran forward with an axe half as tall as he was and swung it into the ice with a yell. Another dashed forward to cover him with his shield, but it wasn’t enough. The axe-bearer swung again, and the tone of his yell changed when an arrow struck his leg.

Grantaire screamed when Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta all ran forward with their own shields raised high, crouching in front of the Romans to cover them from the Saxon arrows. “Come back!” Éponine shrieked. “Get behind him!” The ice would break; Grantaire could feel the cracks under his feet. They would all fall in – they would freeze and drown and be lost forever.

“Come back!” he joined his voice to Éponine’s, though it wasn’t as strong. “Come back!”

One last swing of the Roman’s axe, and the surface of the lake shuddered. Grantaire didn’t even realise he’d lost his fur and started running forward until Éponine grabbed his arm and dragged him back, screaming as the ice buckled beneath them.

“Joly!” he shouted, pulling against her so hard Cosette had to pull him back as well, dragging him to the safety of the shore. “Chetta! Bossuet, run! Come back! _Come back!_ ”

They were dragging the axe-bearer, pulling him along the ice as fast as they could, barely ahead of the shattering sheets. Grantaire barely saw the Saxon army break apart, dissolving into chaos as the lake devoured them from below.

He knew they were safe when they slowed, and Votad warriors and Roman soldiers alike ran out to bring them back in, lifting the axe-bearer up as he hefted his weapon and howled a cry of victory, heedless of the three arrows in his legs.

“Idiot!” Éponine shouted at him, cheeks red with fury. “What the fuck were you thinking?” He barely staggered back in time to avoid a slap. “ _What were you thinking?_ ”

“I’m sorry,” he gasped, and managed to throw Gavroche’s bow aside before he collapsed to his knees and retched, the cries of the dying Saxons so loud and close in his ears, blood staining the snow where the axe-bearer had been carried past. The bodies of their own fallen had vanished under the ice, never to be seen again, and Grantaire heaved again and again until tears were freezing on his cheeks and his stomach was empty.

“How can you do that?” he whispered as Éponine knelt at his side, touching his brow, his cheek, his neck. “How can you keep doing that? I don’t understand.”

“People are either good at killing, or they’re not,” she said bluntly. “Some people are good at battle, some people are good at singing. You’re a singer, not a warrior.”

“I’m a shit singer.”

“You could’ve been a bard.”

It was an old argument, and he managed to dredge up a weak smile in response. She pulled him into a quick hug and helped him to his feet, keeping him upright when all he wanted to do was lie on the ice and sleep forever.

The snow had been falling heavily the entire time, and Grantaire didn’t realise until they were back among trees that they were heading north, not south, and he twisted against Éponine’s side. “Enjolras, the Romans –?”

“They’re coming with us.” Éponine pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders and rubbed her thumb against his bondmark. “The snow was becoming a blizzard, and both our people have wounded. We’re going home.”

“Enjolras too?”

“Enjolras too.” She was quiet for a while, then turned her head to whisper into his ear. “I’m so proud of you, Grantaire.”

“What for?” he felt drunk, the cold sinking into his bones and blood and spinning his head in circles.

“You stayed and fought, even though it made you sick. And when the ice cracked, your instinct was to save our friends, not yourself.” She kissed his cheek, her mouth hot against his frozen skin. “I’m so proud, Aire. I’m so glad you’re bound to me.”

He was too cold to cry, but his throat went tight anyway, and he leaned his head against hers. She understood (she always understood), and a while later Enjolras appeared and insisted Grantaire ride on his horse. When Éponine explained that Grantaire was a nervous rider at the best of times, and right now he was so weak he’d fall off as soon as he swayed, Enjolras said there was room for two riders, if both were light.

Grantaire was pushed and pulled up onto the horse’s back and drifted in and out of unconsciousness as soon as he didn’t have to walk. Éponine sat in front of him so he could lean on her, and Enjolras led the horse by the reins. They were just one part of a big, slow-moving group trekking its way through the snow-covered forest to the Votad winter village.

 

Time slipped, sensations tricking him when they shouldn’t have. He burned and froze, was wrapped in furs and fed broth, and Éponine was close, Éponine was taking care of him, even though he wasn’t worth it. Valjean was there too, and Cosette, and soldiers, Roman soldiers –

He was pushed down and told something about the soldiers being friends, not enemies, but they disappeared anyway and he fell back into woozy darkness.

When he woke properly, his throat was as raw as if he’d been coughing up dirt, and there was a deep hollow in his chest that made him wheeze when he tried to take a deep breath. The second breath turned into a cough that didn’t end for what felt like a long time, and left his throat stinging and his eyes brimming with tears. 

Fingers on his neck eased the ache a little, and he curled up and sniffed. Éponine shuffled round in front of him, keeping her hand on Grantaire’s bond and lying down in the gloom. “Are you awake?” she whispered.

He nodded, and she smiled and leaned forward to kiss his forehead. He had to be in one of the smaller houses, Grantaire decided. Whichever one, it was warm, and it was an easy thing to slip back into sleep.

He’d been unconscious for almost three days, Éponine told him later, holding him up as Joly helped him eat, swallowing small mouthfuls of broth. They’d evaded any remaining Saxons and made it to their winter camp, and the Romans had come too. Valjean was encouraging their peaceful stay, though of course there were plenty of Votads who were less than pleased with the idea. Who hadn’t lost someone to Roman soldiers? There had already been two assassination attempts.

“On who?” Grantaire whispered, voice too weak to speak with any volume.

“Their leader, and the one with tattoos on his face.” The one who had broken the ice had taken too much damage to his leg, and it had been amputated halfway down the thigh. “He wasn’t best pleased,” Éponine grimaced.

“They’re riders,” Grantaire reminded her, hoarse. “Need both legs.”

He was staying in Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta’s house for the time being, until he could move into the communal roundhouse with Éponine and Cosette. Until he was well, there was too much risk of passing on his cough to the others. Implicit in that was that his friends didn’t want anyone to be able to confirm the rumours that Grantaire had bonded with one of the soldiers.

“He’s asking to see you,” Éponine told him, combing his hair gently. “Every day, he asks.”

Grantaire didn’t reply, and Éponine nodded as though he had. His silence was answer enough, he supposed.

Spiritbound to a Roman soldier. A soldier who had certainly killed many of his brethren, but who had also rescued him from priests he was supposed to obey. Who knew their language. Who had tried to keep Grantaire safe, away from the battle on the ice. What did it mean, that their spirits were joined?

Two days later, Grantaire was waking naturally instead of jerking awake because of his cough, and Valjean came to see him. Grantaire stood on weak legs as he entered, eyes lowered in deference, and he seemed to feel rather than hear Valjean’s sigh. “Sit, Grantaire.”

Bossuet gave them both ale, warmed in the kettle over their little hearth fire, and Grantaire cradled his between his hands, still not able to look Valjean in the eye. It was because of him that Cosette had been captured and tortured. If he’d been Valjean, he would’ve had him whipped, if not exiled.

Valjean sipped in silence for a long minute before speaking, tone mild. “I must congratulate you, Grantaire.” Grantaire’s head snapped up, and Valjean smiled. It was disarming enough to make Grantaire flush, but Valjean was kind enough not to mention it. “You are spiritbound to another. My daughter’s craidàimh grows.”

To include an enemy. Grantaire looked down again, shame burning his skin. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled. He was the corruptive one, the one who had brought Cosette and Éponine down in rank because of his new bond. People had burned their own marks away for less. He’d considered it briefly, eyeing the embers of the fire in the few moments he was alone in the little roundhouse, but he was too afraid of the pain to do it. Pain, and the risk of death from infection if he messed it up – he was already weak, after all. And there was still that shameful part of him that wanted the chance to continue his talks with Enjolras, and perhaps more from there.

Valjean reached out and steadied Grantaire’s cup of ale before taking one of his hands and squeezing. His hands were large and weathered, warm and dry around Grantaire’s as he pressed their skin together. “Anduinnen has blessed you, Grantaire. I have spoken to Enjolras, and the other soldiers. I believe this is a sign that things are to improve. The Romans say they expect their Empire to issue orders of retreat within the year. None of these men appear keen to leave the land they have lived in all their lives on the whim of an Emperor they have never seen. Enjolras is spiritbound to you now – why should he not stay? And if he stays, why shouldn’t his men?” He pressed Grantaire’s hand tighter before letting go.

Grantaire had to rest his ale on his knees so as not to drop it. He had expected disappointment, anger, coldness. He didn’t deserve acceptance. “Chieftain…”

Valjean leaned forward to clasp Grantaire’s shoulder. “I am very glad you survived your capture, Grantaire. Cosette tells me you blame yourself for her imprisonment – you should not. She made her own decision, and had the Romans not freed you, Éponine and your other friends would have. You are valued highly among your companions, Grantaire.” He waited until Grantaire met his eyes, and smiled. “Trust their judgement, if not your own.” A final squeeze, and he rose to his feet, handing his empty cup to Bossuet. “Thank you. When Joly decides you are well enough,” he added to Grantaire, “you are welcome in my roundhouse.” He nodded to them both and left quietly.

Grantaire didn’t realise his hands were trembling until Bossuet took his cup away gently and held them still. “He’s right,” he whispered. “We value you very highly, Aire. We love you.”

Grantaire couldn’t speak past the lump in his throat, but Bossuet understood when he nodded.

That night, Grantaire slept between Joly and Musichetta, Bossuet snoring on her other side, and turned Valjean’s words over in his head. If Valjean wanted the Romans to stay, perhaps being spiritbound to Enjolras wasn’t so bad. Joly always said that the gods didn’t make mistakes, especially not Anduinnen. Grantaire wondered what it would be like to see Enjolras’ bondmark. What it would be like to touch it.

It took him a long time to fall asleep.

 

Some of the villagers gave him hard looks when he moved into the main roundhouse, and Grantaire knew they didn’t believe he deserved to be in there. But he was bound to Éponine, so in he went, no matter how self-conscious it made him. To his surprise, the Romans were in there too. Not to sleep – that would have been too far, even for Valjean – but they ate there, guests around Valjean’s own hearth.

It explained why certain villagers were giving the roundhouse a wide berth, angry at Valjean’s decision to allow the Romans to stay. They should be prisoners at least, was the general feeling Grantaire picked up. Not guests of honour. Had the harvest that year not been so good, tempers might have been stoked to rebellion by hunger, but so far that wasn’t the case.

He stuck close to Éponine and Cosette when he moved in, a fragile warmth blooming in his chest when he saw they’d saved him a place to sleep on a pallet next to theirs. Benches to sit on during the day, they served as beds at night when mattresses and blankets and furs were heaped on top of them. He sat close to the fire with Éponine on one side and Cosette on the other, the three of them playing liar’s dice.

On the other side of the roundhouse sat Enjolras and the other Romans. Grantaire could feel Enjolras’ eyes on him – had felt them since he’d entered – but he didn’t approach. Grantaire waited all afternoon, through their evening meal, through a story told by Azelma about how a raven had once stolen the moon. And after that the Romans left, and Grantaire’s heart twisted as he realised he’d wanted Enjolras to come to him and say hello.

“Why didn’t he say anything?” he whispered to Éponine as they made their beds up for the night.

She shrugged a shoulder. “Maybe he wants to let you make the move. This is your home, not his.”

So on the next day, Grantaire was ready when the Romans entered the roundhouse, and got to his feet as most of them sat down. Enjolras rose again uncertainly when Grantaire beckoned, and followed him outside without protest.

The snows had come in heavily while Grantaire had been confined. The animals were all inside various roundhouses and huts, some squeezed in with the families who owned them. The wind cut into the gaps in the fur Grantaire wore around his shoulders, and froze his legs, only covered by trousers. It was so cold that if he spat, his saliva would freeze before it hit the ground.

“I didn’t know whether you would want to speak to me,” Enjolras said as soon as they were a few paces away from the roundhouse. Grantaire stared at him, surprised at how anxious he sounded. “Or be seen with me at all,” he went on, looking down and hunching over against the cold. The village was in a clearing, and the trees beyond the edges did little to protect against the fierce winds. “I didn’t understand before.” Enjolras gave him a worried look. “When you said how much your people hated Romans, how you…someone’s standing could be lowered by having a Roman soulmate. I thought you might not want anyone to know.”

Enjolras would have been prepared to deny their bond, Grantaire realised, stopping next to a storehouse and turning to face him properly. Enjolras would deny their bond and avoid him completely if Grantaire asked. No one beyond their close companions would have to know. There would be rumours, but they would fade if they never went near each other.

Enjolras met his eyes steadily, though a crease between his eyebrows gave away his apprehension. His cheeks and nose were bright pink, though they’d only been outside a few moments, and something in Grantaire’s stomach twisted at the thought of sending him away and never speaking to him again. That he knew Enjolras would accept whatever decision he made made it so much worse.

“I’ve never been one for lying,” he croaked. Enjolras’ eyes widened at how hoarse his voice was, and Grantaire managed to smile. “Come back inside.”

“You shouldn’t have come out at all.” Enjolras took a step towards him, then clearly made himself step back again, not sure of what he was allowed to do. Grantaire wanted to know what he would have done – put an arm around his shoulders? Reached for his hand?

“I wanted privacy,” he whispered. Enjolras frowned and started to walk back to the roundhouse as Grantaire did. “And I didn’t know what you wanted.”

“I want…” Enjolras trailed off and gave him a nervous look. “I want to be your soulmate. We have all winter now, and I’d like…I’d appreciate the time, the opportunity to get to know you.” He stumbled over the words, his accent thickening on some of them, and Grantaire couldn’t help the smile that pulled at the corners of his lips.

“I’d like that too,” he rasped, and looked down at his boots retracing their steps so he wouldn’t see more than a glimpse of Enjolras’ bright smile. Had the illness made him even softer? As they stepped back inside the roundhouse, heat and smells washing over them, the magnitude of what he’d agreed to hit him. A few villagers were watching him with flinty eyes – Montparnasse, Fidèle, Ninon, Corin – and for a moment Grantaire quailed and considered going back over to Cosette and Éponine on his own. But he looked at Enjolras quickly, and found resolve when he met his eyes. When he turned towards the Romans, Enjolras gave him a small smile and led the way over to them.

“I hear someone tried to kill you,” he whispered to the one with the black lines tattooed on his cheekbones. “Congratulations.”

When Enjolras translated, it startled a laugh out of a couple of them, and Enjolras gave him a small smile. “This is Jehan,” he told Grantaire. “And Bahorel, and Feuilly.” Bahorel was the biggest of the Romans, biceps that looked thicker than Grantaire’s head bare in the warm roundhouse. Feuilly was clearly the one who had broken the ice – his left leg was almost completely gone, and he looked paler than the others. Grantaire already knew Combeferre, and Enjolras introduced the last as his other soulmate, Courfeyrac.

“Us,” Courfeyrac gestured to himself and Combeferre, then to Grantaire with sparkling eyes. “…craydem?” Grantaire snorted and shook his head.

“Craidàimh,” he whispered, only realising as Courfeyrac repeated it correctly that he was right. These two strangers were part of his craidàimh now. He could feel the eyes of the less-than-friendly burning into his back, and he sat close to Enjolras on the floor.

Combeferre asked Enjolras something in Latin, and Enjolras turned to Grantaire when he was done. “He wants to know what makes up a craidàimh exactly. Because you have other soulmates, does this make them craidàimh to him and Courfeyrac?”

Grantaire’s throat clicked as he swallowed, and he floundered for a moment before a familiar pair of legs appeared next to him and Éponine sat down, handing him a cup of water. “You’re part of my craidàimh,” she told Combeferre, “but Cosette wouldn’t be. Your bond is to Enjolras, then Grantaire, who is bound to me. But Cosette is not bound to Grantaire or Enjolras – she’s too far away.” Grantaire watched as Enjolras translated it for Combeferre. There were exceptions to the rule, but Éponine’s explanation was fairly standard.

“What was your word for a group like us?” Enjolras showed the bondmark on his wrist, and at his nod, Courfeyrac and Combeferre showed theirs as well. “There was another word for it, wasn’t there?”

“Ceandàimh,” Grantaire nodded.

It started off a flurry of word exchanges, the Romans relaxing enough to laugh as the Votads stifled snickers at their terrible pronunciation. Enjolras tried his best to be a good translator, but it was hopeless as it got louder, the Romans picking up objects or miming things and asking for the Votad words and phrases for them. Cosette brought beer for all of them and complicated matters by insisting on learning some Latin.

By the evening meal, Éponine had started hitting Grantaire every time he opened his mouth to speak, his throat getting increasingly sore as he kept laughing, and Enjolras was close enough that their shoulders brushed if Grantaire leaned even slightly to the right. He fancied he could feel the heat coming off Enjolras’ skin, imagined his bondmark tingling at being so close to its twin. Enjolras wouldn’t have seen his own yet either, unless one of his soldiers had drawn it for him somehow.

He hadn’t been more than fleetingly curious about it until now, but with Enjolras so close, all Grantaire wanted to do was push his shirt up and see it, see if it was as intricate as he thought from the little glimpses over his shoulder he’d been able to get, trace the thin black lines with a fingertip and then see how much he could cover with his palm.

He and Éponine had first touched when he was fifteen and she was twelve, an accident when she had slammed into him from behind, running too fast to stop. They’d noticed the bonds while they were untangling themselves on the ground, and everything had changed. She’d been desperate for solitude, someone other than her family to talk to, and he’d been aching with loneliness. Bound in spirit, he’d adored her completely. They’d touched each other’s bondmarks just minutes after exchanging names, too excited to even think of waiting, and Grantaire had wanted to hold Éponine close and cling to her, so grateful for the warmth and kindness that burst through their bonds when they touched.

What would it be like to touch Enjolras’ bondmark? What would he feel through their bond? Éponine had once gotten Grantaire and Cosette to touch her bondmarks at the same time as she touched both of theirs, and Grantaire had felt an echo of their bond through his link to Éponine. Cosette lifted Éponine up, while he grounded her in familiarity. Cosette was spring, and he was autumn. Éponine loved them both.

Would Enjolras feel like that? Were Romans different?

Grantaire watched Combeferre and Courfeyrac out of the corner of his eye, and decided that perhaps they weren’t.

~

“Do you think it would work?” Courfeyrac squinted over Combeferre’s shoulder.

“I’m not sure. It’s probably a waste of time anyway, since the Votads are unlikely to let us experiment with their materials.”

Enjolras studied the parchment Combeferre was sketching on in charcoal. Since Feuilly’s amputation, he’d applied himself to trying to figure out a way of making an artificial leg that would allow Feuilly to continue riding. Feuilly had been trying to be stoic about the whole situation, but for an Iazyges to be unable to ride…

The first Iazyges cavalry had been brought to Britannica several generations ago, before Christianity had taken root on the island, and they had maintained their traditions and gods as best they could so far from their homeland. Enjolras had worried once, when his godmark to Courfeyrac and Combeferre had appeared, that they would one day try to return to the eastern steppes. But their generation had grown up more attached to Britannica than a distant land that was even less familiar than the mountains north of the wall.

Riding, however, was still the lifeblood of the Iazyges. Of all the sacrifices they could make to their eight gods, horses were the most prized. Jehan always joked that he had been both conceived and born on horseback, and from the way they told it, Enjolras got the impression that they’d ridden more than walked for most of their childhoods. He and Marius had the latest starts of any of them – Enjolras hadn’t started learning to ride till he was six, and Marius till he was ten. 

For Feuilly to lose the ability to ride was almost worse than castration. He’d accepted the amputation at Bahorel’s furious insistence, but he was spending more and more time these days silent and withdrawn. Enjolras didn’t know what to do.

“Do you know a way a person could ride with only one leg?” he asked Grantaire that afternoon in Valjean’s roundhouse.

“Feuilly won’t come today?” Grantaire looked around, and Enjolras shook his head. Moving Feuilly was difficult, and painful for him. Everyone but Enjolras had stayed in their little house to keep him company today.

“His leg hurts too much.”

Grantaire nodded and lifted his head, peering through the smoke above the hearth to someone Enjolras’ couldn’t see. “Gavroche!” His voice was still weak, and he coughed and tried again. “Gavroche!”

A lanky boy stood up and loped around to squat opposite Grantaire, pale eyes flicking to Enjolras and taking in his appearance before he looked back at Grantaire. “What?” This was Éponine’s younger brother, Enjolras remembered. He was near to twenty, but still looked about sixteen.

“How could a one-legged man ride a horse?” Grantaire asked. Gavroche sat down properly, crossing his legs.

“Is it a riddle?”

“A question.”

“Mm.” Gavroche fell sideways, head propped up on a pale hand. His hair was as dark as his sister’s, but his face was far more open. “He’d need to have a way of strapping himself in. A belt over his stump, maybe. And he’d need a counterweight to balance his good leg, but not one that’d dangle and get caught on things his good leg could avoid. And he’d need a very patient horse.”

“Combeferre’s trying to plan out a fake leg,” Enjolras told him, and Gavroche pursed his lips.

“Made out of what? Wood? Leather? Metal? Leather or wood would be best – you could make the knee joint flexible and use a cord attached to the saddle to lift it out of the way. He’d need to be able to steer one-handed though, without a weapon in the way.”

“That would be a problem.” Enjolras’ heart sank. He hadn’t considered just how much this would affect everything about Feuilly’s battle style. They’d known the amputation would end Feuilly’s career as a ground soldier, but there had been a little hope for him if he could still fight from horseback. But he fired a bow or wielded a sword if he was riding, and steered with his legs as the others did. But with only one leg to steer with, how would he do that?

“A patient horse could do it,” Grantaire told him. “If his horse – or another – could learn to respond to spoken commands.”

“In the middle of battle?” Enjolras sighed, brow furrowed. “It’s too loud. It wouldn’t work, or the horse could mishear him, and that could cost him his life.”

“So he can’t fight anymore.” Gavroche shrugged. “He could still ride. He could herd cattle from horseback.” He snorted. “Though he’d have to _have_ cattle for that first.” He and Grantaire shared a bitter smile, and Enjolras looked between them, nonplussed.

“What?”

“We have few beasts as it is,” Grantaire explained. “No one’s keen to sell, and no one’s ever going to sell to a Roman. He’d have to wait for a horsefair, and even then.” He shook his head.

“Is there anything we could do to be accepted?” Enjolras scowled, but Gavroche just shrugged.

“You know our tongue, that’s a good start. You’re not wearing armour; that helps. Do as Valjean says and integrate. Distance yourselves from the Romans.” He got to his feet and returned to the other side of the fire, and Enjolras sighed.

“But we _are_ Romans.”

“You’re not.” Grantaire shuffled round to face him, putting his back to the fire. “You’re only part Roman. Your mother was Brigantes, and your grandfather from our lands. You’re sure you don’t know which tribe?”

“If I was ever told, I’ve forgotten it now.” It felt like the twentieth time he’s said it.

Grantaire made a tsking noise with his teeth and lips. “Your men aren’t so Roman either,” he added, encouraging. “You said they keep their own gods – that’s good. It shows they’re not like the other soldiers. They’re more like us.”

“Am I not then?”

“Your blood makes up for your beliefs. And…well. There’s our bondmark.” He lowered his voice, but gave Enjolras a small half-smile to make up for it, which he couldn’t help returning.

He’d hoped by now that Grantaire would have let him see his mark, but Grantaire was still wary of even talking about it. Or was it shyness? Enjolras didn’t know him well enough yet to be sure. At least they were growing closer. Enjolras was learning more every day about the Votads – the way their society worked, the way they lived, the games they played, and the people themselves.

He knew that Valjean came from far further north, and had met Cosette’s mother on his travels. She wasn’t his daughter by blood, but their shared godmark was proof that she was his daughter in spirit. Fantine was a sort of priestess, Grantaire told him. She heard the voices of the gods as others heard the voices of those around them, and she wandered where she was needed. She would meet them in spring, if she survived the winter.

Grantaire had told him of his own parentage as well, after Enjolras had told him all he remembered of his. His father had died when he was young, and his mother had been a farmer, but had to sell her land when her cattle died. She had become a warrior and was slain in battle when Grantaire was fourteen. He’d struggled by, hunting as best he could and doing odd jobs on the farms of other families in exchange for food and fire, until he’d found Éponine and followed her back to her village. This village. She and Cosette touched when they were both seventeen, and had loved each other since. 

“Will Cosette be chieftain after Valjean?” Enjolras asked, watching her pass a cup to her father and laugh at something he said. “Can women be chieftains here?”

“Of course. She’d kill anyone who tried to take it from her.” Grantaire’s voice was fond, and he leaned back against a pallet and stretched his legs out. His game board was nearby, and Enjolras put it between them and started setting up the little stone pieces. It wasn’t dissimilar to shells, a game played with pieces like this back in the barracks on the wall, but it was different enough to keep tripping Enjolras up. He hadn’t won a single game yet, but he’d always been stubborn.

“Does that mean she and Éponine will rule together?”

“Éponine will be her consort.” Grantaire twisted to face him better and waited till Enjolras had finished laying the pieces out before swapping a few of them around, correcting Enjolras’ mistakes without a word.

“What about an heir then? Will she have to marry?” He frowned at the board and moved one of the blue pieces.

“Can’t do that till the horse is beyond the fence,” Grantaire reminded him, and he huffed and moved an orange piece out instead. Grantaire smiled and moved one of his orange pieces as well. “She could marry,” he said slowly, “but I don’t think she would. She loves Éponine too much. Till she bears children, Éponine would be her heir, and then…either myself or Azelma, maybe Gavroche. If Cosette died without children, people would vote for the chieftain they wanted.”

“So she could have children with anyone?”

“Yes. Though…it would be customary for the father to be someone close.” Grantaire grimaced. “I would be the first choice. Then Gavroche.”

“Wouldn’t you want to have a child?” Enjolras frowned. It seemed to him that Grantaire would make a good parent. There were some children in the roundhouse, and Grantaire indulged them happily, letting them win any games they played and telling the same stories over and over if asked.

Grantaire laughed. “It is more the prospect of sleeping with someone I consider a sister. Of sleeping with any woman, to tell the truth.”

Enjolras looked down at the board and picked up a green piece, pretending to be thinking about strategy to cover his sudden empty-headedness. He knew that Grantaire had been imprisoned for sodomy, but hearing him admit to his desires so openly –

“I’ve offended you.” Grantaire’s smile was gone, and Enjolras shook his head hastily.

“No, you haven’t. I’m not used to it being a subject of conversation, that’s all.” He put his piece down, taking one of Grantaire’s and hesitated before asking, “Is it more common here? Men desiring men and women desiring women?”

“It’s not _un_ common.” Grantaire shrugged. “There’re a few in every village at least.”

“But it isn’t…I mean…” He didn’t know the Votad word for taboo. “It’s allowed? Your laws don’t prohibit it?”

“Why would they?” Grantaire’s expression shuttered. “Your god is the only one who seems to have a problem with it.” He took two of Enjolras’ pieces, movements sharp.

“Because it isn’t natural.” Enjolras sat back and rubbed his forehead. “I don’t mean that.” He didn’t think anyway. “But that’s why it’s holy law. Men and women were made to lie together. They fit, like puzzle pieces.”

“Don’t men and men?” Grantaire’s lip curled. He made a circle with one hand and thrust the finger of his other into it. Enjolras flushed, but Grantaire laughed. “Men have holes to fill as well, Roman.”

“Don’t call me that,” Enjolras snapped. He hoped no one was watching them. The fire seemed too close and the air too hot and stifling, and he got up to get himself a cup of ale. After a moment’s pause, he brought one back for Grantaire as well – his embarrassment was no cause for rudeness.

“Do you understand what I mean by natural?” he asked, handing Grantaire a cup and sitting down again. “I mean it doesn’t occur in nature. God’s innocent creatures don’t do those things. The males bed females and produce offspring. That’s God’s intent.”

“I am glad your god doesn’t rule here.” Grantaire sipped his ale and gestured for Enjolras to take his turn. “Our gods allow us to take our pleasure where our bodies lead us.”

“And no one…minds?”

Grantaire shrugged. “If someone insults you, you have the right to fight them for your honour. There will always be people who say love and desire lead to weakness. Just because your god has made saying so legal, doesn’t mean it’s true.”

Enjolras pondered on that as the days passed. Gavroche came to visit Feuilly, intrigued by Combeferre’s sketches and buoying Feuilly’s hopes with enthusiasm. He was apprenticed to the village smith, it turned out, and he was more than willing to try and make such a strange contraption as a fake leg for riding a horse. He also latched onto Feuilly’s talents with a knife and a block of wood, and set him to whittling game pieces and useful items like pegs and tool handles and bowls. That could be his payment, Gavroche told him, if he made enough.

The others also progressed with learning the language, Jehan taking the lead and soon trying to translate Latin poetry into the Votad tongue. He’d tried learning some of their poetry but been sternly rebuffed – poetry was sacred here, even more so than prayers back on the wall.

A month after their arrival and they were even dressing like the Votads, draping blankets over their shoulders and holding them in place with long pins. And Enjolras kept coming back to the problem of sodomy and God’s will, in a way he hadn’t since he’d found out about Combeferre and Courfeyrac’s love for each other.

He’d always known they were bonded, of course, but he hadn’t found out that they loved each other as man and wife until almost a year after becoming their commander. They’d hidden it from him because of his Christianity, Combeferre had explained at the time, while Enjolras was still numb with shock and betrayal, and Courfeyrac had been ready to attack him if he dared expose them.

He’d been sickened at first, horrified that the two men he valued above all others, his _soulmates_ , would debase themselves like that. That they felt such unholy desires at all was terrible, but to act on them as well? Enjolras hadn’t been able to speak to them for days. He was ashamed of it whenever he thought of it now, of course, and it had been Courfeyrac who snapped him out of it. He’d come to Enjolras too drunk to walk straight and told him that he’d rather burn in hell with Combeferre than be in an empty heaven where they weren’t allowed to love each other.

Enjolras had reminded himself of Lamarque’s lessons then – only God could judge men, and if God had bound Combeferre and Courfeyrac together, perhaps it was His will that they love each other the way they did.

But Lamarque was dead, and Enjolras didn’t know what God’s will was anymore. While his soldiers slept, he sat up in bed and laced his fingers together, praying for answers. _Holy Father, please guide me. I have followed the mark you bound me to Grantaire with, but what should I do now? Lord, please give me a sign. God…if desiring another man is such a sin, why did you bind Combeferre and Courfeyrac? Why did you bind me to Grantaire?_

It had been easier on the road, caught up in the rush of getting the villagers beyond the lake, thinking he and Grantaire would part ways at the end of the mountain road and perhaps never see each other again. It had been easier believing that they would never have the chance to know each other, but now that God had placed him here for the whole winter, everything had changed. He had changed.

Unable to sleep, he heard it when someone rose from their pallet and slip into someone else’s. The sounds weren’t unfamiliar – he had heard Combeferre and Courfeyrac before. He’d kept earplugs of soft cotton under his pillow in the barracks, but here there was nothing to stop him hearing them.

They tried to be quiet, but their breathing was still harsher and quicker than a sleeping person’s, and the blankets and furs rustled as they moved beneath them, the wet sound of kisses and muffled gasps impossible to ignore. Enjolras squeezed his eyes shut and tried to ignore the growing pressure between his legs, furious at himself for reacting, and for trying to imagine what they were doing.

He’d seen them in the barracks sometimes, shadows in the dark moving together. This time he could hear the faint slap of flesh on flesh, and he wondered which one of them was allowing himself to be taken. It was usually Courfeyrac, from what he’d seen before, but they swapped positions sometimes. He wanted to turn over and see; he wanted to reach between his legs and give himself some much-needed relief, but his embarrassment was far greater than his desire.

And this sort of desire might not be a sin for Grantaire, or for Combeferre and Courfeyrac with their foreign gods, but he was Christian, and this _was_ supposed to be a sin for him. He dug his fingers into his ears and mentally recited old history lessons. He would have recited psalms, but he didn’t want God to see him like this, however futile that hope might be.

 

As the days grew even shorter and darker, Enjolras spent more and more time in the main roundhouse with Grantaire. The main activity of the winter months was storytelling, and as their language skills improved, more of his soldiers joined him to hear the tales of the Votads’ history and culture.

Bahorel wanted to hear songs of battle and triumph and comedy, Jehan was enamoured with the many poems about the Pictish gods. Feuilly liked stories about tricksters, Courfeyrac enjoyed anything with animals, and Combeferre was fascinated by the history of the tribes and the northern lands. Enjolras never asked for tales on any subject in particular, or showed any outward preference. But he didn’t think it was a coincidence that Grantaire would always look at him first before asking for or telling a story about soulmates.

“Tell us a story from your gods then,” a woman shouted one day. Floreal, Enjolras remembered after looking at her face for a moment. “Are they horse-lords?”

Enjolras’ heart sank as his men looked at each other, hesitating. In truth, they knew little of the gods of their ancient homeland beyond their names and basic functions. Bahorel always said that Agin guided him in battle, but could not have said what sort of god Agin was other than a war-like one who rode his horse fiercely into battle. Were Agin’s fellow gods his siblings? Were any of them his lovers or children? None of them knew, and there was no one left to ask.

“Would you like a story from my God?” he asked, raising his voice to get their attention. He did not intimidate easily, but something in him did shiver at the sudden force of so many hostile eyes on him at once. Something touched his leg – Grantaire’s foot, pressing gently against his thigh.

“Do you have any good stories?” he asked, smiling as if Enjolras had made a joke. “I don’t believe it.”

“I’ll tell you how God created the world,” Enjolras told him, trying to sound just as casual.

“Are you a good storyteller?” Grantaire raised an eyebrow. Enjolras looked round at Courfeyrac, who shrugged.

“You have a good memory. That’s close enough for your stories.”

“Thank you.” Enjolras rolled his eyes and looked back at Grantaire, more than a little unnerved by the silence in the roundhouse. He would pretend he was just telling Grantaire, he decided, clearing his throat. “In the beginning,” he raised his voice so that everyone could hear him, “there was darkness.”

It had always been one of his favourite parts of the Bible, so he had no trouble remembering it. The real difficulty was keeping himself from slipping back into Latin, but it got easier as he went along, telling the villagers about God creating the earth and sky and sea, and all of the plants and animals, and finally creating man and woman. Adam and Eve, bound together by the world’s first godmark.

He tried to make it sound as dramatic and impressive as he could, and felt his heart swell when he got to the part with the banishment and realised that everyone was hanging on his words, eager to hear what happened next. When he paused and no one said anything to make him stop, he glanced at Grantaire. He nodded, and Enjolras continued into the next story.

Cain and Abel were soulmates like their parents, he told them, until Cain committed the first great crime and murdered his brother. As punishment, God faded the colours of his godmark to symbolise the death of his soulmate, and stamped another mark on top of it to warn any other people from killing him, so that Cain would be doomed to wander the earth alone forever. To have a faded godmark was called being touched by Cain, Enjolras told his audience, and gratefully accepted a cup of ale to sooth his overworked throat.

“We have another story for that,” Grantaire told him. “Deacduwenn’s Sorrow.”

A few people in the roundhouse made sad noises, but Enjolras couldn’t look away from Grantaire. “Tell me?”

Grantaire looked to Valjean first, and when he received a nod of permission, he sat up straighter and folded his hands in his lap. It was the position many took when they told stories, Enjolras had noticed, and wondered whether it meant anything. But then Grantaire began to speak, and Enjolras forgot everything but the sound of his voice.

Grantaire might not have been much good in battle, or possess any skill on a hunt, but his memory for stories and songs was excellent, and he had the quality of telling them that the Votads called _cionthar_. As far as Enjolras could tell, it referred to the lilting rhythm Grantaire would adopt when he recited poetry, but also to the power of his phrasing and his above-average understanding of the story and its context. Jehan thought it also meant that Grantaire excelled at capturing the attention of his audience and making the story come alive in their minds. Either way, Enjolras was spellbound.

Deacduwenn was a goddess of the clouds above the mountains, Grantaire told them. She was the first daughter of Icovellauna, mother of all, and Ruadnios, one of the first gods of the land, and she was born at the dawn of the world in the bright sunlit rainbows that decorated the sea cliffs. Deacduwenn was full of the power of divine life, and she brought joy and laughter to all she graced with her company.

She had many companions and played parts in many other stories, but her own tale truly began when she first held the child of her sister Rynenian. A more beautiful child had never been seen, and his name was Lennwyn. Deacduwenn adored her nephew more than anything else in the world, and when Anduinnen blessed them with a mark to show the depth of their bond, no one could be more pleased than the happy aunt.

While Rynenian was busy with her river-realm, Deacduwenn showed Lennwyn the delights of the world. She took him deep into the forests and taught him how to hunt, led him to the highest mountain falls and down into the deepest parts of their roots. She sang to him and kissed him and bestowed many gifts upon him. And Lennwyn loved his aunt in return, above any other.

One day, Lennwyn went alone into the forest. (There was a whispering sigh that seemed to come from all around the roundhouse, and Enjolras felt dread creep into his chest.) He was still young and foolhardy, brave the way young animals are brave, with no knowledge of death, certain of their own invulnerability. So he went alone into the forest, thinking to hunt a stag or a boar and gift a meal to his beloved aunt, who would surely be so proud of his achievements.

Lennwyn was a bright and bold hunter, and he soon found the trail of a boar and began to track it. For three days and nights he tracked his prey through the deep woods, until finally the boar became exhausted and turned to fight. Lennwyn’s blood was high, his excitement overpowering. He could taste victory – all he could think of was presenting the boar’s tusks to Deacduwenn and seeing her smile.

Distracted, he wasn’t fast enough when the boar rushed him. It impaled him on its great tusks and drove him into the ground, uncaring of Lennwyn’s cries of pain. It tore him open and trampled him into the soil, and ran away into the forest, free of its hunter at last. Lennwyn’s blood soaked the earth, and too late, he realised that he would never live to see his aunt again.

When a week passed and no word came from Lennwyn, Deacduwenn began to search for him. She went first to his mother’s halls under the river, but he was not there. Worried by the absence of her son, stern Rynenian left her kingdom in the hands of her captain and joined Deacduwenn’s search. They journeyed from one corner of the land to the other, and could not find him. Many other gods who also loved Lennwyn dearly, joined the sisters as they scoured the land.

Finally, after many weeks, Anduinnen came to Deacduwenn in the dark of the moon and told her to search the deep woods. Anduinnen’s voice was so sad that a deep fear took root in Deacduwenn’s heart, and though she followed their advice, she was in a frenzy by the time she finally came upon Lennwyn’s body.

Her anguished cries brought forth rain from her mountain home, and the whole world seemed to weep. It rained so hard, for so long, that the bright colours of her bondmark began to wash away like dye in a river. Her sorrow was so great and so deep that Anduinnen made it so that anyone who lost someone their spirit was bound to would also see their bondmark fade and grow pale, washed away by Deacduwenn’s tears.

Deacduwenn retreated to her mountains, and her sorrow has never ended. That is why the very tops of the mountains are so often cloaked in rain and cloud, and why we say that when it rains particularly hard, Deacduwenn is weeping still.

Silence fell in the roundhouse, and Enjolras swayed forwards towards Grantaire, half-sure he could hear rain on the roof above them.

“Tell us a funny story.” Cosette broke the silence. “A happy story. Floreal, sing of Maponos’ wedding.”

As the spell fell away and people began to arrange themselves for some sort of clapping game, Enjolras scooted closer to Grantaire. “You’re much better at telling stories than I am,” he whispered.

“I’ve just had more practice.” Grantaire smiled at him all the same, then nodded at Floreal. “Come on, you’ll like this one. It’s a drinking game as well.”

“As if anyone needed the encouragement,” Enjolras said dryly. He let Grantaire put a jug between them anyway, and clapped along and sang the chorus of the song with everyone else as best he could. It got harder the more he drank, of course, and he found himself leaning against Grantaire at the end, breathless with laughter. Someone started reciting their family tree, others listening closely for any mistakes, and Enjolras turned his face against Grantaire’s shoulder and breathed in.

He smelled of smoke and ale and soft blankets, the skin of his neck warm and soft, and Enjolras let his eyes slide shut, pretending to doze for the excuse of staying where he was. Grantaire’s arm was behind his back, letting Enjolras lean on it for support, and he wondered how close Grantaire was to the godmark on Enjolras’ back. Could he touch it right now? Enjolras could touch his. Just slip his hand up under Grantaire’s shirt and spread his hand over it.

He jerked out of his stupor when his head slipped off Grantaire’s shoulder, and pulled away out of embarrassment. Grantaire didn’t seem to mind, which shouldn’t have bothered Enjolras, but somehow still did. He dreamed of Grantaire that night, the two of them alone in front of the roundhouse hearth, Grantaire’s lips against his jaw, his hands underneath Enjolras’ shirt. He woke to find himself thrusting against a lump in the blankets, and after checking that everyone else was still asleep, he slipped a hand between his legs and finished himself off, too aroused to even think about ignoring it.

He had to go outside to wash his hands in the snow, and crept shivering back into bed. What was God trying to tell him? Was he weak, allowing himself to be tempted by sins of the flesh? But then why would God bind them together in the first place?

In the morning, he took his sword and wrapped up as warmly as he could, then headed into the forest. He wouldn’t go far, he reasoned, and if it started to snow he would head back. But he needed a few hours away from the village. Away from his men and Grantaire, and the rest of the ever-watching villagers.

He walked for twenty minutes, then started looking for somewhere to sit. Finding nothing, he brushed snow off the roots of a tree and settled there, trying to melt into surroundings and become perfectly still. The forest around him was quiet in the way forests only ever were in winter, leaves gone and needles and branches weighed down with snow. If there were any animals, they were silent and invisible, and when Enjolras spoke, he had to whisper or it felt like he was shouting.

“God,” he breathed. “Lord God, please hear me.” The forest was still, but just being able to speak out loud was a relief. “Lord, I have always tried to follow you and do your will, but I…” He swallowed and closed his eyes. “Lord I am so lost here. I do not know whether what I feel for Grantaire is a sin or not. I thought such feelings to be benevolent as long as they did not concern me, and now I find myself in their grip, I don’t know what to do.”

He had been able to reconcile sodomy with his faith only as long as he was not the sodomite, and the realisation that he was more concerned with his own soul over Combeferre’s and Courfeyrac’s sickened him. His hands trembled as he pressed them together, fingers interlocked.

“I don’t want to be a sinner.” His voice cracked, and he bowed his head. “But I don’t know whether sodomy is a sin according to your laws, or laws made by men. I cannot believe you would condemn my soulmates for what they do, but…I’m scared of losing your favour if I follow their example. I’m scared.” It was such a relief to admit it. “Lord, I’m scared. Please…”

He loosened the grip of his hands to press his fingertips to his eyes, determined not to cry. When he took his hands away and opened his eyes, a flash of movement caught his attention. A small black and white bird fluttered to a branch of a tree opposite him, and as he stared it opened its beak and sang. A rhythmic chirping that was shockingly loud in the snow-still forest.

It repeated its song several times, turning around on the branch and bobbing to keep its balance, and the strange repetitive rhythm of its chirp made Enjolras think of Grantaire just as it flew away in the direction of the village, gone as suddenly as it had arrived.

He had asked for a sign, Enjolras remembered, desperate hope swelling in his chest. Had that been it? He laced his hands together and bowed his head again, trying to empty his mind and listen for God’s presence. His breathing turned slow and deep, the utter stillness of the forest wrapping around him like a shroud. His body was just a vessel. He was just a soul, floating in the darkness, and God loved him.

He had to trust in that, if nothing else. God loved him and loved all children of His world. He loved Combeferre and Courfeyrac as well, and Enjolras reminded himself of the pink and gold radiance of the godmark they shared. Something so beautiful could never be a sin, and nothing they had done had corrupted it. There was no taint in either of them for what they did, and it didn’t matter which position in the act they took. All Enjolras felt through his bond to them was love and warmth.

God had made them soulmates – it was with his blessing that they loved each other. And God had bound Enjolras to Grantaire and given them the capacity to feel the same way.

Enjolras’ vision blurred when he opened his eyes, but he just smiled and blinked until he could see clearly. He felt clean in a way he hadn’t for a long time, full of life and gratitude for it. He pushed himself to his feet and brushed snow from his legs and backside before turning around and heading back to the village. He couldn’t have been gone for more than an hour.

 

“Christians don’t have heroes like you do.” Enjolras looked up at Bahorel’s laugh, and Bahorel caught his eye and grinned. “They have saints though, which is a more depressing version.” The woman he was talking to asked him another question and he turned back to her to reply.

Enjolras looked down at the board again and moved a blue piece. That his games with Grantaire were lasting longer was a sign he was improving, apparently, though all it really seemed to do was draw out his inevitable defeat. But Grantaire lit up every time he came back for more, so it was worth it to lose.

Grantaire nudged his leg to get his attention. “What’s a saint?”

“They’re…heroes of the church, I suppose.” Enjolras turned one of the pieces he’d taken from Grantaire over and over in his fingers, rubbing his thumb over the smooth stone. “Most of them are martyrs.”

“What’s a martyrs?”

“A martyr,” Enjolras pronounced it slowly so that Grantaire would hear the lack of an ‘s’ on the end. “Is someone who dies for their faith.”

Grantaire frowned, taking Enjolras’ gold piece without ceremony. “What does that mean?”

Enjolras glared at the board, resigning himself to another defeat. “I really thought I’d sneaked the chieftain past you that time.”

“Keep me busier with your warriors next time,” Grantaire smiled. “You’re getting better. What does dying for your faith mean? Does your god kill them?”

“No!” Enjolras almost laughed. “No, it means they were killed by other people for refusing to renounce God. Before Rome became Christian, many Christians were killed for their faith – that’s what it is to be martyred. Many refused to renounce God even under terrible torture. They are blessed in the eyes of God.”

“Why didn’t your god save them then?”

Enjolras frowned, but Grantaire appeared to be genuinely curious as opposed to cutting, as he sometimes was, so Enjolras answered. “Because all physical suffering will pass, and when the martyrs died, their reward was a seat in paradise, and veneration here on earth. They serve as examples to the rest of us. Like Ailidh,” he added, struck by inspiration. “Letting herself be tortured because she knew she would see her lover in the other world.” Floreal had sang it to them two nights ago, and Enjolras grinned when Grantaire nodded grudgingly.

“Are there many martyrs and saints?”

“Quite a lot. I don’t know them all.”

“Tell me about some.”

Enjolras thought as he studied the board, and moved his horse piece sideways. “My teacher told me about Sergius and Bacchus,” he said slowly. “They were soulmates in the Roman army over two hundred years ago, under the command of a general called Galerius. They were closer than brothers, and loved each other so deeply they even underwent the rite of adelphopoiesis to bind them formally together.”

Grantaire leaned forward, intrigued. “What’s adelpha…”

“Adelphopoiesis,” Enjolras said for him, smiling. “It joins two people together in a sort of formal union.”

“Like marriage?”

“Sort of.” Enjolras cleared his throat, not wanting to get into it. “Galerius despised Christians, and when he found out that Sergius and Bacchus followed God, he was furious. He reported them to the emperor, who ordered them to worship in a temple of Jupiter. When they refused, he ordered them to be humiliated – they were dressed as women and whipped, paraded around the town where they were stationed.” He swallowed. “They were sent further east in chains to be tried as criminals, and told at every step that if they renounced God and worshipped the pagan gods instead, they would be freed and allowed to return to their high positions with no repercussions. Still they refused.”

“Did they know they would be killed for it?”

“Yes.” Enjolras rubbed his thumb over the stone in his hand. “They were taken to Antiochus, the commander in Barbalissos. He gave them one last chance to renounce God, but again they refused. Antiochus liked Sergius best, and ordered for Bacchus to be tortured first, beaten to death with rawhide until his body was in pieces. That night, his spirit appeared to Sergius in his cell. He held him and told him to remain strong so that they could be together in heaven.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them he looked at the board instead of at Grantaire. “Antiochus took Sergius with him to another city, and on the way tried to persuade Sergius to sacrifice to Jupiter and give up God. When Sergius refused…Antiochus ordered nails to be driven through his boots, and forced Sergius to run in front of his carriage the rest of the way to Resafa, a full nine miles. Sergius stayed strong despite the pain, remembering what Bacchus had said to him. Pain on earth is fleeting – paradise in God’s heaven is eternal. He continued to refuse to sacrifice to Jupiter, and Antiochus had him beheaded two days later.”

“They are your favourite saints?” Grantaire asked after a moment. Enjolras glanced up to see his expression, and relaxed when he saw it wasn’t mocking.

“They faced terrible pain, but remained true to God and each other throughout,” Enjolras explained. “I admire that.”

“I just hope you don’t aspire to it.” Grantaire gave him a crooked smile, then proceeded to take Enjolras’ horse and effectively win the game, laughing when Enjolras cursed in Latin.

Enjolras thought on it later, going over his other favourite stories and lessons as Courfeyrac tried to teach Gavroche a Roman drinking game to raucous laughter and applause on both sides. It was the same with the Votad stories they were learning – his favourite tales were always the ones about soulmates.

The martyrdom wasn’t quite something he aspired to, but the level of devotion and love between Sergius and Bacchus was. There was no greater gift than that of a soulmate, in his opinion. There was nothing better than a bond between people that drew them together and made them more complete. And even when it came from the most surprising and unlikely of places – he looked over at Grantaire – it was still something to take pleasure in.

After Courfeyrac came back to slump against Combeferre, still giggling, Enjolras inched closer to them, half-consciously rubbing his arm where his godmark lay under his sleeve. Combeferre noticed first, and reached out to take his hand and pull him in, pushing his shirt out of the way and wrapping his hand around Enjolras’ forearm.

Enjolras’ tense shoulders eased, and he sighed as Combeferre gave him a comforting wave of reassurance and trust. He reached for Courfeyrac, and Courfeyrac for Combeferre, and the three of them just sat in silence for a minute, letting the connection settle into them. Enjolras opened his mouth, and when neither of them spoke he asked quietly, “When you lie together, does it hurt?”

If either of them were shocked by his sudden curiosity, they didn’t show it. Combeferre squeezed his arm and Courfeyrac shook his head. “Not if you do it right.” Enjolras gave him a helpless look, and he smiled. “If you go slowly and use plenty of…whatever lubrication you’ve got, it shouldn’t hurt.”

“Stay relaxed,” Combeferre added, giving Courfeyrac a smirk which he rolled his eyes at.

“That too. If it’s done right, it’s ecstasy.” He met Enjolras’ eyes and held his gaze even when Enjolras flushed. “For both parties. Use fingers first, don’t try and run before you can walk.”

Enjolras looked down, sure he was bright red. “Thank you.”

“If you have any questions, ask.” Combeferre leaned forward and kissed his forehead. “Grantaire’s very lucky to have a soulmate like you.”

“As are we.” Courfeyrac kissed his forehead as well, and Enjolras took their hands and squeezed.

“Not as lucky as I am to have soulmates like you.”

For the first time, he allowed himself to really think about it. Now that there was someone he desired and he knew some of the logistics of the physical act, he couldn’t seem to stop. He sat next to Grantaire as they ate and imagined kissing him, touching him, and allowing Grantaire to return the intimacy. 

What would it be like share a bed with him? Grantaire was shorter than he was, but stockier, with paler skin and faster-growing stubble. His smile could be wicked sometimes, and Enjolras imagined seeing it from below, Grantaire lying over him and pressing their bodies together, applying his fingers the way Courfeyrac said.

Awake in the dark, Enjolras bit his lip and tried it himself, shocked at how sensitive he was, and how tight his entrance. He tried to imagine doing that to Grantaire, but kept failing. Grantaire was more experienced, he reasoned. It made sense that he would be the one to take the lead.

That was, if Grantaire was amenable to doing that with him at all. Enjolras thought he was, but it was hard to tell sometimes. Particularly when Grantaire tore into his views and beliefs, mocking and sneering.

“He was an idiot!” he insisted of Job. “Belief in god or not, anyone could see he’d been cursed and renounced by him!”

“God returned his wealth twofold,” Enjolras explained for the third time through gritted teeth. It was morning, a few people in the main roundhouse still sleeping on their pallets round the walls. Though how they managed with five children playing some sort of dancing game, Enjolras had no idea.

“He didn’t return his dead children,” Grantaire retorted. “Seems a poor deal to me. Your god is very easy with the suffering when it comes to the followers he’s supposed to love.”

The tale of Job was one of Enjolras’ least favourites, but he was still so angry at Grantaire’s mockery that he couldn’t see straight for a moment, and when Grantaire rolled his eyes at his silence he pushed himself to his feet and stalked out, the cold air hitting him like a blow. Unwilling to just stand where he was, he pulled his hood up against the falling snow and started making his way back to the house where he and his men slept.

No one had been able to make him feel so much like an irrational child since he’d actually been an irrational child. Sometimes Grantaire listened and seemed interested, but then there were times like today when he didn’t even need an excuse to scorn every word Enjolras said. It was infuriating. And it stung in a way he wished it didn’t.

There was the sound of someone hurrying through the snow towards him, and Enjolras clenched his jaw. Sure enough, Grantaire caught up to him a moment later, his cheeks already red from the cold. “Enjolras –”

“Have I ever made fun of any of your stories?” Enjolras demanded, anger boiling over. Grantaire hesitated, and Enjolras went on. “Have I ever told you how stupid it sounds to have warriors born from trees, and women made of water? Have I ever laughed at any of the cruel games your gods play with their followers? Have I?”

Grantaire shook his head. “Enjolras…”

“I haven’t tried preaching to your people,” Enjolras hissed. “I haven’t tried to convert any of them, or tell them that God condemns their souls to eternal damnation. I don’t even pray in your hearing! Do you know why?” When Grantaire didn’t answer, Enjolras leaned forward. “Because I respect you, that’s why. Is it so much to ask that you afford me the same?”

Silence, and Enjolras pressed a hand over his face, irritated that he’d lashed out so childishly.

“I’m sorry.” Grantaire met his eyes when Enjolras looked, appearing to be totally serious. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“Would mocking your heroes and gods offend you?” Grantaire looked down, and Enjolras sighed. “My faith is part of me. A vital part. I cannot live without it, and would not ask anyone to live without theirs. Of course it offends me when you deride something I hold so dear.”

Grantaire nodded, eyes on the ground. “If I do not…if I behave better.” He looked up at Enjolras. “Will you come back inside?”

There was a moment when Enjolras almost said no. But Grantaire’s expression shifted in the silence, betraying his nervousness, and Enjolras nodded instead, and gestured for Grantaire to lead the way. “Thank you.”

Grantaire gave him an apologetic smile, and bumped their shoulders together as they walked back to the roundhouse. Enjolras’ fingers twitched as he wondered whether Grantaire would mind walking hand-in-hand with him, and he curled his hand into a fist to make sure he wouldn’t act on the impulse. He was still too unsure to make any sort of first move like that.

~

As Enjolras got up to go back to the Roman house, as the villagers had taken to calling it, Grantaire hesitated and considered asking him to stay. As always, he remained silent and watched him leave instead. No one would have objected – Enjolras was spiritbound to him; he had the right to sleep where Grantaire slept – but what if Enjolras turned him down? Grantaire could be wrong about the looks Enjolras kept giving him, after all. It looked like desire, but could he trust his judgement where Enjolras was concerned?

Enjolras and the rest of the Romans appeared much smaller in the village than they had on the road. Their ignorance and easy laughter made them almost childlike, and out of their hearing most villagers came to the conclusion that they were not normal Romans. Most of them were descended from a tribe from over the sea, forced into service by the empire many generations ago.

On the road, while Grantaire had been too weak and starved to move from the wagon, Enjolras had seemed a towering god-like figure, clad in his bright armour and red cloak. In the village, dressed to blend in, he was constantly checking the reactions of others before allowing himself to respond to anything. He was always looking at Grantaire for a nod or shake of the head to guide him. He was so determined not to offend that he’d held his tongue when Grantaire mocked his faith. Until yesterday, that was.

Grantaire wouldn’t do that anymore. He still despised many parts of Christianity, but he would refrain from taking it out on Enjolras. Enjolras wasn’t the one who had locked him below the earth and tortured him. It wasn’t his fault that Grantaire was afraid of the dark now, and woke sweating from nightmares where he couldn’t move, trapped once more in the stone hole. Enjolras had taken him from that, and Anduinnen had bound their spirits to keep them together.

Enjolras was his now, for all time. The thought didn’t frighten Grantaire the way it had done a few weeks ago. Quite the opposite.

As they played fidchell and listened to the storytellers and singers, Grantaire watched Enjolras from the corner of his eye and thought ahead to spring. If Enjolras stayed, what would happen then? Would he join the ranks of their warriors and fight his old comrades at the wall? Would he help them steal from the Romans? Grantaire had thought so at first, but the stories Enjolras preferred said otherwise. He wasn’t interested in tales of warriors and mighty deeds in battle. He wanted stories about soulmates – people bound together and overcoming any odds to be with each other. Enjolras was a fearsome warrior, but his heart craved companionship and peace.

In that at least, they were well-matched.

If Enjolras gave up his armour and horse, he might make enough to buy a few sheep, or tools for farming the earth. He and Grantaire could buy some land, just enough to live off. They could live together, and he could stop living off Valjean’s kindness.

If Enjolras stayed. Though if Grantaire never asked him to, would he assume he was unwanted?

To test him, Grantaire told him the story of Beitris and Caomhainn. Caomhainn was a sailor, wrecked on the beach near Beitris’ house. She took him in and they fell in love, but never told each other. Caomhainn wanted to stay, and Beitris wanted him to stay, but because neither said a word, they thought the other didn’t care. Caomhainn sailed away and never returned. Perhaps he drowned, or perhaps he found another and fell in love with them. Beitris never found out.

“Why would you tell me such a sad story?” Enjolras frowned, eating his porridge slowly.

“I wanted to know what you thought.” Grantaire stretched, smiling as one of the dogs came to flop over his legs. 

“I think they were fools,” Enjolras said bluntly. “They should have told each other how they felt. Caomhainn should have stayed.” He stopped and blushed suddenly, getting up to scoop the remains of his breakfast back into the pot. Grantaire watched, and asked him for a story when he returned. Enjolras was getting better at telling them, overcoming his self-consciousness and learning how to pace a good tale.

His voice made up for his lack of skill, if Grantaire was honest. Enjolras had a way of telling a story – a way of addressing people – that held their attention almost against their will. It was partially his beauty, but Grantaire had thought on it and decided that what it came down to was his conviction. That was why he was at his most radiant when he told stories from his own faith – he believed in them completely, in their message and the truth in them.

He was strong and certain and brave, and when he was there, Grantaire felt his own insecurities recede, a rare bubble of belief in himself allowed space to form. He let it build up as he sat with Enjolras, and as the afternoon came to an end, he pressed his shoulder briefly to Enjolras’ and spoke in the direction of their knees. “Would you like to stay tonight?”

There was no reply for a moment, but just as he was about to lift his head and check Enjolras’ reaction, Enjolras spoke. “Is that allowed?

Grantaire broke into a smile, but reigned it in as he met Enjolras’ eyes. “You’re spiritbound to me – you can go wherever I do.”

“And sleep at your side?”

There was a note of hesitance there that Grantaire hurried to address. “You don’t have to, there are plenty of spare beds –” There weren’t, but he could get at least one for the night if needed.

Enjolras shook his head, cheeks a little pink. “No, I don’t mind. I’d like to.”

“Oh.” Grantaire’s chest swelled, and he smiled. “As long as you don’t mind.”

The evening couldn’t pass swiftly enough. But finally the Romans departed without their commander, returning to their own house, and pallets were piled with furs and blankets, children picked up from wherever they’d dropped to either be carried to bed or to the houses of their own families. The fire was low, the dim red light glowing from the centre of the roundhouse and letting the corners fill up with thick shadows.

Grantaire watched as Cosette chased Éponine to bed, the two of them giggling as they slipped beneath their covers, and against his side Enjolras yawned and whispered, “Where do you sleep?”

“Against the wall, almost at Éponine’s feet. Do you want to…”

“Please.” Enjolras yawned again, and Grantaire waited for him to sit up properly before moving away, rising to his feet and offering Enjolras a hand up.

Almost everyone else had retreated to bed as well now, the loudest noise in the house the crinkling sound of fire licking over the embers of the hearth. Slow, steady breathing was all around them, and someone on the other side of the floor began to snore softly. Grantaire’s pallet was below Cosette and Éponine’s. It was one of the wider ones, which he was grateful for now, realising that he and Enjolras would have to press close to stay on it.

Under all the furs and blankets, Grantaire always slept shirtless and barefooted, and he’d already sat on the edge of his bed when he realised that sleeping that way would mean showing Enjolras his back. His back, and the bondmark there.

Enjolras sat next to him, as cautious as someone sitting next to a snake. Grantaire glanced sideways at him and caught Enjolras looking back, both of them smiling awkwardly at being caught. “Have you seen our bondmark yet?” Grantaire whispered.

Enjolras shook his head. “How would I? It’s on my back.”

“Someone might have drawn it for you, I didn’t know.” Grantaire ran his tongue over his lower lip, then pressed his foot against Enjolras’. “Would you like to see mine?”

Enjolras’ nod was fast – he’d wanted this for a long time, that much was clear. Grantaire leaned down to take his boots and socks off first, then turned to sit cross-legged on the bed with his back to Enjolras. He waited until Enjolras was still behind him, then pulled off his overshirt, and finally the thin sleeveless vest beneath it.

Éponine had described it as a hole full of knots. Cosette, a little more artistically minded, had said it was like one of their brooches, full of delicate twists and loops in an intricate pattern. She’d said it was beautiful, but Grantaire couldn’t know the truth until he saw it for himself. Since the mark was on such a hidden part of his body, the only way to do that would be to see Enjolras’ matching bond. For weeks, he’d thought of nothing else.

What matches he had – first Éponine, fierce and brilliant like iron and silver. And now Enjolras, courageous and kind, the Roman who had saved his life even though he’d been locked up for what was a sin in the eyes of the Christian faith.

Grantaire had little enough to give him, but one thing he could do was let him see their bondmark first. It seemed only right.

“Oh…” Enjolras breathed. Grantaire shivered, and Enjolras shuffled forward a little. “I have no gift for description,” he said quietly, “but it is beautiful.”

Unseen, Grantaire let himself smile, bowing his head. “Éponine told me it’s like ours – black with knots.”

“It is. But much bigger, and more contained. And very black, like ink. Do you…I haven’t heard if your people have beliefs about the colours of godmarks.”

Enjolras hadn’t touched him at all. Grantaire swallowed and tried to ignore the way the skin of his back was tingling with anticipation of it. “Some. Most people pay little attention to them – they’re for children, really. Do Romans believe the colours mean something?”

“The pagan empire believed certain colours were linked to certain gods. There was a rhyme about colours in the town where I grew up, but I can’t remember more than a few lines of it.”

Grantaire waited, but he didn’t recite anything. “Some colours are tied to materials,” he said, when Enjolras kept his silence. “Yellow and orange for gold and bronze, green for grass, blue for rivers and lakes…fast emotions and quick tempers, you see?”

“Red for fire?”

“For warmth and food,” Grantaire nodded. “Pink and purple for flowers – beauty and royalty.”

“What’s black then?”

“Soil.” Grantaire smiled. That both his bondmarks were black was a good sign for him. “Deep earth and rock, good for growing and building on.”

“It suits you.” Enjolras sounded like he was smiling, but Grantaire didn’t want to turn around to check. “What about brown?”

The bondmark he shared with Combeferre and Courfeyrac was brown and purple, Grantaire remembered. “Brown is mud, another good thing to build with. Fertile ground, again, good for growing. It’s also trees, connecting earth and sky. Strong bonds.”

“Their people – Combeferre and Courfeyrac’s people, I mean – said brown was leather. A warrior’s colour.”

Grantaire nodded. “We say yellows, reds, and oranges are for warriors. Like Éponine’s bond to Cosette.”

“Why those colours?”

“Yellow and orange for bird eyes, hunting eyes. Red for blood. They’re bright, bold colours.”

There was a pause, and then something touched Grantaire’s shoulder – fingertips, light and cool. “I like black better,” Enjolras told him.

Grantaire’s breath was caught in his chest. He had to close his eyes before he could pull air into his lungs and say, “You can touch it if you want.”

The fingers stuttered on his skin. “You haven’t even seen it yet.”

“I don’t mind.” He could look another time, maybe later. Right now, all he wanted to know was how it felt to have Enjolras touch his bondmark. “I don’t mind,” he whispered again, and Enjolras’ fingers moved, skidding down, down, rough over the smooth skin of his back, till they finally came to the black lines of the bondmark.

There was a flicker in Grantaire’s mind as his fingers brushed the edge, and then a warm burst as Enjolras flattened his palm over it, pressing very lightly. It faded back immediately to a sort of soft glow, far gentler than Grantaire had expected. His bond with Éponine was sharper, a tighter sort of embrace. This was…his spine curved as he slumped, eyelids fluttering, and he let out a long breath. This was a slower build. Enjolras had been holding back, he realised, but Grantaire could feel him now. An edge of hope and tentative longing, and when Grantaire didn’t pull away, a giddy sense of wonder.

They stayed like that for several long minutes, until Grantaire finally tipped his head back and turned to look over his shoulder. Enjolras let his hand fall away, and Grantaire blinked as the world seemed to come back into focus. “Oh.”

Enjolras met his eyes, less wary than he’d ever been. “Would you like to see now?”

“Yes.” Grantaire turned around as Enjolras did, their positions reversed. Enjolras was wearing two long-sleeved shirts, one of them dyed brown, the other roughspun white. The skin of his back moved over his muscles as he pulled them both off at once, the material sweeping away to reveal golden skin marred with many scars. 

Grantaire’s eagerness faded, eyes going wide with shock as he took them in. “What happened?”

“I’m a soldier. Battle happened.” Enjolras stretched, and part of Grantaire’s mind murmured appreciation at the strength in his shoulders and arms. “This was the worst.” He touched a raised line that wrapped around his side, about the length of Grantaire’s palm. “Saxon broadaxe. I nearly died." 

Grantaire’s fingers moved of their own accord, brushing Enjolras’ as he touched the scar. Éponine had scars as well, but none like this. He remembered the Saxons from the lake, their helmets and furs and shields, and remembered the axes they’d banged against them to keep their marching in time. Most had been small, like the axes the Votad warriors used. But some had been as large as the axe Feuilly had used to break the ice.

He imagined an axe that size being swung into Enjolras’ side, and shuddered. “I’m very glad you didn’t.”

His eyes slid then to the lower part of Enjolras’ back, where their bondmark stood out. His lips parted as he stared, already wondering if he would be able to paint the design on a shield or have it made into a brooch. It would be almost impossible to do in metal – there were so many little lines, so cleverly woven together. Grantaire’s hand was hovering over it already, and he just remembered in time to ask Enjolras, “May I –”

“Please.”

The tone of his voice ignited something in the pit of Grantaire’s stomach, and he savoured it for just a second before lowering his hand over the bondmark. Goosebumps erupted instantly down Enjolras’ arms, and he lowered his head and groaned softly.

Grantaire bit his lip, more than a little awestruck at the effect his touch had had, and more than a little aroused as well. He shifted his palm against Enjolras’ back, covering as much of the bondmark with his skin as possible. To touch each other’s marks at the same time, they’d have to be facing each other, he realised distantly. They’d have to stand or sit very close, close enough for him to tilt his head back and capture Enjolras’ lips. Close enough for plenty of other things too, if Enjolras was interested in that sort of thing.

Had Enjolras ever bedded a man before? Grantaire lifted his palm away, though not his fingers, and started to trace the circle’s edge, and then followed a line of black with two fingers. Enjolras’ breathing slowed, and Grantaire followed the line with his eyes as well. The black was stark and bold, with no indication of which lines overlapped or ran below each other, so he was free to follow any path he chose, switching direction if he pleased just to keep his skin against Enjolras’.

After what could have been a minute, but felt more like half an hour, Enjolras made a small noise and turned his head, eyelids drooping. “Can we sleep now?”

Grantaire nodded, smile sneaking onto his face despite his efforts to hide how helplessly smitten he was. Enjolras sighed when he pulled his hand back, but stood at Grantaire’s direction so the furs and blankets could be pushed back and they could climb between them, lying on their sides facing each other. Grantaire lay with his back to the wall, so he could see a little of Enjolras’ face in the gloom, silhouetted by the glowing hearth as he was. He could feel the heat of his breath though, and their legs pressing together as they arranged themselves as comfortably as they could. 

“Thank you,” Enjolras whispered. He was so close, and they were warm and safe in their own little world – Grantaire could have kissed him then. Unbidden, the memory of the pit and the priests returned, and he barely fought back a flinch.

“What for?” he whispered back, hoping Enjolras had not noticed.

“Letting me see, and touch. And stay. Thank you.”

Grantaire could find no words to respond. Or rather, found too many – he wanted to tell Enjolras that the pleasure had been his, that he was the one who should be grateful, that he would not be here at all were it not for Enjolras. Nothing felt quite right, so he fumbled between them for Enjolras’ hand and took that instead, squeezing until Enjolras gripped back.

He had slept next to other men before, but usually on the floor with a little more space to spread out. He woke up often during the night, finding that he had been crowded against the wall or that Enjolras had managed to pull the furs up off his feet. Each time he woke, it became easier to tug things back into order and press closer to Enjolras. By morning, Enjolras’ back was against his chest, his bondmark against Grantaire’s stomach and Grantaire’s arm holding him in place. He’d never been so warm.

 

“Éponine said you could have been a bard?” Enjolras asked a few days later as the two of them walked outside. The snows had been washed away by heavy rain, and overnight everything had turned to ice and frost, white and crackling, and Grantaire was taking Enjolras to see the birch trees by the stream. Each twig would be frozen into something like an icicle, spidery and solid and out of place in the normal world.

“Éponine likes to talk.” Grantaire shook his head and caught Enjolras’ arm as his heel skidded on a patch of frozen mud. “Careful.”

Enjolras nodded, and stuck closer to Grantaire as they proceeded into the trees. “She said a bard came to the village not long after you came to live with her, and wanted you to go with him when he left.”

“His name was Gros.” Grantaire sighed, and continued at Enjolras’ expectant look. “I had some talent for singing, and a fair memory. There aren’t many true bards left – he clearly wanted anyone with the bare minimum of ability.”

“Why aren’t there many bards?”

“For the same reason there aren’t many Druids.” Grantaire gave him a flat look. “The Romans killed them.”

Enjolras looked away. “I’m sorry.”

Just like that, any potential fight melted away, and Grantaire sighed. “Well. It’s not like you killed them all. But yes, we’re a little short on bards and Druids these days.”

“Didn’t you want to be a bard then?”

Grantaire took his time replying, and Enjolras was patient, not making another sound as they walked through the trees, following a well-trodden path to the stream edge. “I did want to,” he said once the water came into view, the flow only two feet wide at this time of year, frozen at the edges. “But I didn’t at the same time. I’d only just found Éponine, and she was all I had. Being a bard used to be a lot more prestigious – people would let you share their food, welcome you into their homes. But these days it’s a harder life. And I was scared. I didn’t want to leave the only person I knew would stand by me for a life I wasn’t sure of.”

He’d never said it so plainly before. Éponine had been angry at him at first for not taking the opportunity, but he’d known her well enough by then to read her relief as well. Her parents had been less forgiving. He’d already been sleeping with the animals, but once he’d turned down the offer and bound himself to them for good, they’d been furious. Any time Éponine wasn’t around to defend him, her parents would take their frustration out on their unwelcome guest. The instincts he’d developed for avoiding a beating and reading threatening body language had been honed in their house.

“What do bards do?” Enjolras asked as they came to a stop, looking up at the frozen trees around them with wide blue eyes.

Grantaire couldn’t stop staring, mesmerised by the line of Enjolras’ throat. “They…they train for eight years, and sing and tell stories and collect them from as many places as they can. They keep the history of our people alive.”

“So what’s the difference between them and Druids?”

“Druids are connected to the gods,” Grantaire explained, and licked his lips before continuing. “They speak with their voices. Generations ago, only a Druid could perform the rites for marriage and burial, and each of the seasonal festivals is supposed to be led by a Druid. Oh, and they can be a man or a woman – bards can only be men.”

“Why?” Enjolras looked at him, curious, and Grantaire shook his head.

“I don’t know. That’s just the way it is. Druids used to do the rituals for formally binding ceandàimh and craidàimh as well, but no one really does that anymore.”

“Because there aren’t any Druids?”

“There are some, but…yes, the rituals have fallen out of practice, I suppose. They used to be as popular as marriages, but these days a chieftain or a smith marries people instead.” Enjolras came closer and Grantaire found he couldn’t look away. “People have bondmarks to show that their spirits are bound, anyway,” he went on. “They don’t need a ritual.”

“Would the rituals be different?” Enjolras asked, coming to stand next to him and look into the stream. After a moment, Grantaire followed his gaze. “For craidàimh and ceandàimh?”

“It would…depend, I think. On the nature of the bonds.” Grantaire took a breath and tried to order his thoughts. “Your ceandàimh is different to Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta’s, so you would have a different ritual, I think.”

“How is it different?” Enjolras asked, frowning at him. “We’re all bound to each other, aren’t we?”

Grantaire grinned. “But you don’t sleep with Combeferre and Courfeyrac. They do that on their own.” Enjolras’ mouth opened in surprise, and Grantaire laughed.

“I didn’t realise they were all…” Enjolras waved a hand, looking down at the stream again.

“They all live together,” Grantaire laughed. When Enjolras didn’t respond, he shifted closer so their shoulders were touching, not that he could really feel it through his cloak. “Their ceandàimh is one of lenannach, and yours is one of càirdanach.” 

Enjolras frowned. “Lovers…and friends?”

“Good!” Grantaire clapped his shoulder, pleased he’d picked up on the similarities between those words and the language he’d already picked up. “But only relating to those bound in spirit, you see? The third is a ceandàimh of teaghlach – family members.”

“Are all soulmates split into these three categories?” Enjolras turned to face him, and Grantaire shrugged.

“Not always formally, but yes. Friends, lovers, family.” Emboldened by Enjolras’ proximity, he asked in a low voice, “Which do you think you are?”

Enjolras blinked. “To you?” At Grantaire’s nod, he hesitated. The silence stretched out, neither of them looking away. Enjolras’ lips parted as if to answer, but nothing came out. Just as Grantaire was about to tell him he didn’t need to respond, Enjolras swallowed. “I’d…I know what I’d like to be.”

Grantaire curled his fingers inside his mittens, chest filling with warmth. Enjolras wouldn’t be so nervous about giving the answer of friends or family. He waited, and Enjolras closed his eyes for a moment and then looked straight at him. “I’d…the second. Lovers.” His pronunciation was poor, nerves betraying him, and Grantaire reached out to take his hand. He’d made him wait long enough, so he didn’t pause before stepping closer and tilting his head up, pressing his lips to Enjolras’.

Enjolras breathed out against his mouth, warmth thawing Grantaire’s freezing lips, and then his free arm was around Grantaire’s back, holding him close as he kissed back.

Everything around them was so quiet and still that Grantaire could hear their lips moving against each other, could hear every hitch in Enjolras’ breath. The frost crunched under their boots as Grantaire moved closer, pressing their chests together and wishing suddenly that they weren’t wearing quite so many layers.

Enjolras gasped as they parted, lips wet and eyes wild. Struck by his expression, Grantaire reached up to cup his face, pulling him down again to kiss the corner of his mouth, then his cheek, the skin icy under his now-warm mouth. Enjolras shuddered, his hands grabbing fistfuls of Grantaire’s cloak, and his breath caught when Grantaire pressed his lips gently to his closed eyelid.

“Can I,” he whispered, and Grantaire pulled back enough to look at him properly, though he kept his hands on Enjolras’ neck, thumbs against his jaw. Enjolras took a breath, and one of his hands slid round to Grantaire’s front, sliding just under the edge of his cloak. “Our godmark,” he started. “Our bondmark, can I –”

Grantaire nodded, starting to smile and letting go of Enjolras to pull one of his mittens off, dropping it to the ground. They moved at almost exactly the same pace, hands pulling shirts out of belts and slipping below the material to graze skin. All the air in Grantaire’s lungs left him when Enjolras spread his palm over his bondmark, and Enjolras gave a soft moan when Grantaire’s fingers found his. He was the one to move this time, his mouth crashing against Grantaire’s with an urgency that sent heat curling through Grantaire’s stomach.

Enjolras kept making these sounds, tiny half-gasps and choked-off moans that made Grantaire want to pin him to the nearest tree and do far more than kiss. Just a few minutes ago he hadn’t been able to feel his fingers and toes, but now he was burning up, heat spreading in waves from the hand Enjolras had against his spine.

“Grantai – _aire_.” Enjolras’ breath jumped up as Grantaire kissed his neck the way he’d wanted to since he’d seen Enjolras look up at the trees, mouth opening against the skin and coaxing a quiet groan from Enjolras’ throat that he could feel in his lips.

“Alright?” Grantaire whispered, and Enjolras’ hand pressed harder against his bondmark. He felt the _yes_ there, unspoken, and laughed for the sheer joy of it.

“I’ve never,” Enjolras started, swallowed, leaned back to press their foreheads together as he caught his breath. “This isn’t anything I’ve done before.”

Surely he didn’t mean… “With a man?”

“With anyone.” Enjolras’ cheeks were as pink as his nose. Apprehension touched the edges of Grantaire’s mind, soft as smoke. “I mean I’ve…there were a couple of women who…but they weren’t, they were camp followers, and I –”

“Tell me later,” Grantaire instructed, and kissed him again. Enjolras sighed into his mouth and swayed against him, letting Grantaire keep him steady. _Never_ , Grantaire thought over and over. Enjolras had _never_ done this before. He was trusting Grantaire to lead here. He was trusting Grantaire to be in control and take this responsibility.

The few other men he’d been with had been practice for this, Grantaire felt. Thanks to them, he was able to reduce Enjolras to gasps just by kissing him. He was able to judge with a clear head when Enjolras started to worry, because he’d also once worried in the middle of a kiss about what would come next. So he smiled as he leaned back enough to meet Enjolras’ eyes and said, “We should get back before they think we drowned.”

Enjolras nodded, though he looked slightly dazed. Grantaire had to let go of him to pick his mitten up, and Enjolras sighed at the loss of connection, but steadied Grantaire when he straightened up. “Are we…is this good?” he asked, gesturing between them, an anxious line appearing between his eyes. Grantaire smoothed it away with his thumb before pulling his mitten on.

“It’s better than I could have ever dreamed of.”

The bright smile that spread across Enjolras’ face was infectious, and when he took Grantaire’s hand and squeezed, Grantaire laughed and bumped their shoulders together, the rational part of his mind falling away as giddy disbelief took over.

A dozen questions about the future leapt to his mind, but he pushed them away for the time being in favour of pulling Enjolras into another kiss as they reached the village edge, letting him know without words that he was fine with other people seeing. “Wait,” Enjolras said afterwards, stopping Grantaire from leading them further in. “Are there any…does this change anything?”

Grantaire shook his head. “Only if we wish it to. We need not tell anyone, if that’s what you want.”

“Maybe not yet,” Enjolras frowned and worried at his lip, starting to walk again at a slower pace. “I need to tell my men first.”

“You don’t need to sleep in Valjean’s roundhouse if you don’t want to either,” Grantaire added. “You don’t need to do anything at all.”

“And if I do want to do something?” Enjolras looked at him boldly, but Grantaire could see the nervousness in his eyes.

“Then we’d move slowly.” Grantaire gripped his hand. “There are certain things we can’t do in Valjean’s house. Well. We could,” he amended. “But it would be awkward. Certainly not the best place for it.” The idea of sex with Enjolras was probably the most alluring idea he’d ever had, but trying that in a room full of other people? With Enjolras new to even the most innocent of caresses? Not a chance.

“Is there any good place?” Enjolras laughed, disbelieving, and Grantaire smiled.

“If you know where to go and when.”

“Such as?”

It only struck Grantaire then that Enjolras might disdain his suggestions, but it was too late to think of other options. “Animal pens,” he admitted. “They’d be the warmest. Store houses don’t smell so much, but they’re cold.”

“I bet animal pens smell less than the barracks on the wall during winter,” Enjolras said dryly, and Grantaire let out a surprised bark of laughter. They couldn’t stop smiling at each other as they ducked into Valjean’s roundhouse, and Grantaire felt it in his fingers when Enjolras shivered at the warmth that rushed over them. He let go of Grantaire’s hand immediately after, and gave him one more smile before going over to where the other Romans were crowded, heading directly for Combeferre and Courfeyrac.

Grantaire slipped round to the other side of the hearth to get them each a cup of ale. A month ago he would have been able to get them some food too, but this late in winter the stores were running too low for such luxuries.

Enjolras glanced over as he approached, and under Grantaire’s eyes he seemed to glow. This was luxury enough, Grantaire decided, smiling back and brushing his fingers against Enjolras’ as he passed him his cup.

~

“Is that…” Enjolras stared at the white-yellow lump in Grantaire’s hand. “Is that animal fat?”

“What do Romans use?” Grantaire grinned and kissed him, and Enjolras lost himself in it for a moment, relieved that Grantaire hadn’t taken his shock for reluctance. On the contrary; the pleasant ache between his legs hadn’t abated in the slightest.

“I…ah, oil, I believe,” he muttered when they parted. “I couldn’t swear to it. Though I’m sure I haven’t seen any of my men with any of that.” He looked at the lump of fat again. It was only just visible in the gloom inside the hut where the cows were kept. The shaggy beasts had paid them no mind when they came in, Grantaire laying down a blanket so they wouldn’t get too dirty.

Grantaire’s eyes gleamed and he passed it to Enjolras. “It’s not so bad.”

It was softer than he’d expected, squishing easily under the press of his fingers, and Enjolras couldn’t help making a face. “It’s quite bad.”

“It’s better than spit, believe me.” Grantaire laughed and trailed a hand down Enjolras’ bare chest, stopping just short of the line of his trousers and smirking when Enjolras arched up to try and keep the contact going. “It won’t be so bad. I’ll be using most of it, after all.”

“I thought I would.” Enjolras frowned – had he mixed things up somehow? He’d assumed the majority of the lubrication would be needed for whoever was taking rather than giving. Grantaire’s hand settled on his waist, the smile on his face fading somewhat.

“Unless you want to take the position of receiving, I’ll be needing more of that than you.” He nodded at the fat, and Enjolras’ hand closed around it reflexively, claiming it even as a blush spread down his chest.

“Would that be…” He struggled to find a suitable word, then gave up and started again. “Would you mind if I did?”

Grantaire’s lips parted, and a little of the tension that had flooded Enjolras’ body eased away when he recognised the expression as one of wonder. “You want that? I thought you would consider it shameful.”

“Even if I did, why would I then force it on you?”

“Why indeed.” Grantaire started to smile, and suddenly his lips were on Enjolras’, his weight pressing him down against the blanket. Both of them were grinning too much to deepen the kiss, and after a moment Grantaire broke away to laugh against his neck. “You really want this?”

“I’ve…” _Imagined it_ , he didn’t say. “Yes,” he whispered instead. “I want you to…do that.”

“So shy.” Grantaire’s teasing brought a smile back to Enjolras’ lips. “You want me to take you, is that it?”

“I trust you.”

The mischief in Grantaire’s eyes turned to joy, and for a few more minutes they just kissed, their half-naked bodies settling together comfortably. In Enjolras’ hand, the fat grew warm and soft, so when Grantaire opened his fingers to look they both laughed at the odd shape it had become, moulded by his palm.

Grantaire took his own trousers off before Enjolras’, and Enjolras stared and stared, skimming his free hand over Grantaire’s skin and drinking it in with his eyes. His cock was hard as well, and his legs were much hairier than Enjolras’, his thighs skinnier. Grantaire began to touch him as well after a moment’s hesitation, his hands so gentle it was as if he thought Enjolras would shatter at his touch.

Impatient, Enjolras shifted closer, lying on his back and taking Grantaire’s wrist to guide his hand to his hip. “I’m not delicate.”

“All people are delicate.” Grantaire touched the scar on his side, the one from the Saxon axe, and Enjolras pulled him down to kiss away the sombre look on his face.

“I’m not,” he insisted, and ruined the effect by gasping when Grantaire rolled on top of him, their bodies suddenly pressing together from ankle to stomach, cocks hard against each other. “ _Oh_.”

“Oh,” Grantaire smiled and pinned the hand Enjolras was holding the fat in to the blanket, kissing him and kissing him until Enjolras’ body started to move of its own accord, rising up and thrusting, his free hand holding tight to a fistful of Grantaire’s curls.

Minutes or hours later, Grantaire fell to Enjolras’ side and pulled his hand down between them, the animal fat a half-melted glob in Enjolras’ palm now. “You've done an admirable job,” Grantaire smirked. “Warming it up takes ages sometimes.”

It felt disgusting, but Enjolras tried to ignore it as Grantaire’s hand finally slid down between them and wrapped around Enjolras’ cock. “Do you ever touch yourself like this?” he asked, eyes fixed on Enjolras’ face as he tried not to make any embarrassing noises. He nodded rather than speaking, afraid his voice would break if he tried. How could he explain to Grantaire that yes, while he’d touched himself like this before, it was worlds away from feeling someone else’s hand on him.

Tragically, Grantaire didn’t stroke him more than twice before he slipped his hand further down. Enjolras was about to complain when Grantaire’s fingers brushed his entrance and he gasped, tensing up completely. “Relax,” Grantaire smiled and kissed his jaw. “Have you ever touched yourself here?”

“Once,” Enjolras managed to whisper. “Though I had no…none of this.” He glanced at the fat, and Grantaire pulled his hand back (another tragedy) and dipped his fingers into the hollow of Enjolras’ hand, smearing two of them with fat.

“It goes easier with this,” Grantaire assured him, and when he pressed his fingers back against Enjolras’ entrance, the slickness made him tense again before he remembered what Combeferre and Courfeyrac had told him – relax. He took a breath and tried, and Grantaire rewarded him with a bright smile. “You will tell me if it hurts,” he instructed, then grinned and added, “though I’ll go slowly so it won’t.”

Only then did the realisation of what he’d agreed to do hit home, and Enjolras found himself staring at Grantaire’s cock. “You’re not going to fit.”

“Flatterer!” Grantaire laughed, delighted, and kissed him. “Charming Roman, you’ll make me proud if you’re not careful.”

“You think you’ll fit?” Enjolras laughed nervously. Grantaire snorted and pressed a finger forward, not quite breaching him, but getting close.

“With preparation and willingness and a little patience, I assure you I will. We can still swap, or just use our hands,” he added, suddenly serious. “We have plenty of time to experiment and explore.”

“I want this.” Impulsively, Enjolras put his arm over Grantaire’s middle and pressed his hand to Grantaire’s godmark. A shiver ran through Grantaire’s body, and his next kiss was hungry and full of promise. “You have to teach me,” Enjolras breathed, and he nodded. 

“Then you have to let me in.” 

It wasn’t easy. Despite telling himself to relax, his body resisted the intrusion, his muscles tensing when he didn’t mean them to. “I’m sorry,” he said, mortified as Grantaire’s finger slid out for the second time. “I didn’t mean to.”

“No one’s good at something on their first go.” Grantaire just smiled and pressed forward again. This time, Enjolras closed his eyes and concentrated on not pushing him out. “Better,” Grantaire murmured after a minute, and withdrew to get more fat. “Relax, Enjolras. I was terrible the first time I tried this.”

“What happened?”

“Maybe laughter will ease the passage,” Grantaire said dryly, and told Enjolras about using spit instead of animal fat as lubrication, and a story about a man who’d tried to fuck himself with a wooden phallus and accidentally lost it inside himself.

“You’re lying,” Enjolras snickered, breath catching at the glide of two of Grantaire’s fingers in him now. “I don’t believe you.”

“It’s true!” Grantaire laughed and pressed forward a little harder, pressing upwards. “He had to wait for two days before he shat it out again.”

“That’s disgusting.”

“That’s the human body.” A few more presses and something was happening, something that made Enjolras’ cock twitch and his spine flex on every one of Grantaire’s thrusts, pleasure growing the more he did it.

“Oh…” He tried to catch his breath, chest heaving, and dug his nails into Grantaire’s back on the next thrust. “ _Oh!_ ”

“Good?” Grantaire asked, smile wicked, and Enjolras sucked in air in shaky breaths, a high-pitched noise breaking from his throat on the next press of fingers.

“What…”

“Good, Enjolras?” Grantaire’s fingers rocked inside him and Enjolras trembled, clinging to his back and panting against his chest.

“Yes, fuck, _fuck_ …”

Grantaire kept him there, experimenting with speed and depth before settling on a steady, deep rhythm that had Enjolras burning from the inside, partly embarrassed at the desperate way he was now humping Grantaire’s leg, but mostly just lost in the pleasure of it. He wanted to beg, though he was sure Grantaire was already giving him everything he wanted.

Grantaire lay down properly, and used the hand no longer propping himself up to touch Enjolras’ cock, pumping it expertly until Enjolras shuddered, the orgasm rushing through him from his toes to his skull. Despite the way he tensed, Grantaire kept his fingers in him this time and clenching around them felt so good, Grantaire’s hands a gift from heaven.

“You were meant to use more than your fingers,” Enjolras breathed once he’d recovered. Grantaire’s cock was still rock hard between them, and Grantaire laughed when he noticed Enjolras looking. 

“I still can if you like. I’ll give you some time to recover first though.”

“What about you?”

“If you’re willing to let me fuck you, I’ll gladly wait.”

“Touch my mark,” Enjolras mumbled, so relaxed he felt half-asleep. Grantaire moved, and Enjolras sighed when his palm pressed against his mark, bone-deep warmth and devotion rolling through him. And…he frowned…something wet? “Urgh.” He pressed his face against Grantaire’s shoulder. “Your hand’s all fatty.”

Grantaire started laughing, and Enjolras couldn’t help joining in, both of them giggling until Grantaire slid his hand between Enjolras’ legs again. “I’ll wash you afterwards,” he promised. “Fresh water and a cloth, all for you.”

“Sex first.” Enjolras grinned at Grantaire’s startled laugh. “I can say it, you know.”

“I was beginning to wonder whether you could.”

This time was different, now that Enjolras had already come. He was more relaxed, but it felt stranger without the desire to urge him on. Still, he let Grantaire scrape as much of the fat off his hand as possible, applying some to his cock and working most inside Enjolras with his fingers. “The deeper I can get it, the better,” he said.

Enjolras shook his head when Grantaire tried to do the thing with his fingers again, too sensitive to take more stimulation so soon. “Keep going though,” he said, watching Grantaire’s face as he worked in a third finger, concentrating on the way he could make Grantaire’s eyelashes flutter by giving him little rushes of encouragement through his godmark.

“Do you think you’re ready?” Grantaire asked finally, eyes fogged with desire. Enjolras kissed him, thrilled when it made Grantaire moan, and nodded when they broke apart.

“You’ll go slowly?”

“Of course.”

He had to, it turned out. Fingers was one thing, but Grantaire’s cock was another entirely. Enjolras was sure Grantaire had stretched him enough, but he still gasped as Grantaire slid the first inch into him, hands tight on Grantaire’s shoulders. The sight of him leaning over the way he had in Enjolras’ imagination was enough to have his cock stirring again, and he took deep breaths to try and relax. “Slowly,” he whispered.

Grantaire nodded, pulling out almost completely before pushing back in. Gentle, but still so present. He slid in a fraction more, then rocked out again, thrusting back in slowly. Slowly, slowly, he worked his way in, letting Enjolras’ hand on the small of his back guide his pace. It was minutes before he bottomed out, sweat beading on his back and face.

“Alright?” he asked, voice shaking, and Enjolras nodded and pulled him down for a kiss.

Grantaire whimpered, hips twitching, and that desperation fanned the growing flames in Enjolras’ body. “Slow,” he whispered, and urged Grantaire out and in again, out and in, slow enough to make Grantaire gasp. It wasn’t painful, and the discomfort faded as they continued, Enjolras adjusting every time one of Grantaire’s thrusts made him wince until they found a position that worked. Enjolras let out a soft, “Ah!” when Grantaire slipped his hand under his back and found his godmark, and he hastened to touch Grantaire’s as well.

Grantaire started moaning on every exhale, his forehead creased and mouth open. Enjolras could feel his desperation and the heat of his desire, and below that bright hot joy and something akin to reverence. “Good, Grantaire?” he managed to ask, and Grantaire laughed, eyes finding him in the half-light.

“I was empty before,” he gasped, thrusts gaining speed despite his best efforts. “You make me whole. Enjolras –”

He was on the edge, Enjolras could feel it, and he pulled Grantaire down into a mess of a kiss, too sloppy and too shaky to even really be called a kiss, but Grantaire cried out anyway and thrust just a little too hard, hips jerking as he tensed and finally came.

Enjolras clenched around him to see what would happen, smiling when it made Grantaire shiver, his eyes rolling back in his head a little. “Enjolras…” He did it again and Grantaire groaned, fat-slick hand suddenly working between them to grip Enjolras’ cock.

“My turn,” he rasped, and Enjolras threw his head back and found that it was impossible not to whine when Grantaire touched him like this, like there was nothing else in the world more important than Enjolras’ pleasure. He was pinned, Grantaire still softening inside him, and Grantaire’s hand on his godmark urged him up and on, greedy to watch him come apart again. Possessive hunger set him alight, passed from Grantaire, and when he forced his eyes open he moaned aloud to see Grantaire staring at him like he wanted nothing more than to consume him utterly.

When he tensed and came for the second time, Grantaire’s cock slipped free and he leaned down to kiss Enjolras through the aftershocks. He was weak this time, shivering pleasantly, and when Grantaire pulled the blanket half over them and held him as close as he could, Enjolras nuzzled into the embrace.

“I could sleep here,” he murmured.

“You could?” Grantaire’s amusement coaxed a smile onto Enjolras’ own lips.

“I could. If it weren’t for whatever’s oozing out of my ass right now, and the mess on my stomach. You promised me water, as I recall.”

Grantaire laughed, loud and right from his belly. “I did indeed. Permit me another moment or two of rest before I go searching?”

“I suppose.” Enjolras yawned and kissed him, so relaxed he almost didn’t care about the mess between his thighs.

He stayed curled in the blanket while Grantaire dressed and ventured outside to get some heated water and a cloth. They cleaned each other when he returned, trading lazy kisses as they wiped each other’s skin, trying to keep their hands on each other’s godmarks the whole way through.

 

None of them had mentioned the wall for weeks. Even among themselves. Bahorel occasionally mentioned his lover and children, but never of where they lived. Someone who didn’t know him might have thought him callous, but Enjolras saw the way he smiled at the children who played in the roundhouse, and the way he twisted the ring on his finger that his lover had given him. Her name was Aelia, but Enjolras knew nothing more about her.

Feuilly was adapting to the loss of his leg, and one of the reasons Enjolras didn’t bring up the wall was because he didn’t know what would happen to Feuilly if he returned. Retirement, he knew in an abstract sense, but Feuilly wouldn’t want to leave their company and settle on a farm or in a town somewhere down south.

They could all passably get by in the Votad tongue now. Courfeyrac had taken an interest in the creation of weapons as well as their wielding, and Jehan was finally being permitted to learn some poetry. They were tied here now, a dozen lines of interest and care running from their hearts to those of the Votads they had come to know.

But they didn’t speak of the wall, putting off the eventuality of choosing. Perhaps they would have put it off till spring and the melting snows if Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta hadn’t returned to the village shouting, a body draped over their shoulders.

Courfeyrac was the first to recognise Marius, and Enjolras’ heart seized at his terrified cry. “His mark hasn’t faded, has it?” he asked Combeferre immediately, grabbing his arm.

“He’s alive.” Combeferre nodded and started to run forwards as well. “Marius is alive.”

Alive, but only barely. 

They took him into Valjean’s roundhouse at the chieftain’s insistence, and Courfeyrac warmed his body under a pile of furs next to the fire, shaking both from cold and fear. Enjolras knelt next to Grantaire and laced their fingers together, remembering the way they’d arrived. Grantaire had been cold as well, lips blue and skin numb. “I got better,” Grantaire whispered, as if hearing his thoughts. “So will he.”

Marius fell to fever the way Grantaire had, and Courfeyrac insisted on keeping him in their house, only leaving him unattended when he fell into exhausted sleep. Combeferre and Joly argued outside over treatments, and Enjolras and the others watched as they came to grudging agreements and fed Marius broth drop by drop.

Enjolras gave Marius his pallet, telling Courfeyrac he could always sleep with Grantaire in Valjean’s roundhouse. No one was surprised when he just slept on the floor instead. Marius was his soldier. He had sent him to the wall – he was responsible for his return now.

After two days, Marius’ fever broke, and on the third he woke up properly.

“We’re leaving,” he rasped, propped up against Courfeyrac’s chest. “Rome is leaving the wall. I knew you weren’t dead.” He squeezed Courfeyrac’s hand. “I had to tell you. They’re already going. By spring they’ll be gone.”

“Aelia.” Bahorel leaned forward. “My children, the others in the village – what about them?”

Marius swallowed. “Leaving,” he whispered. “They’ll follow the soldiers south.”

“I need to get to her.” Bahorel looked at Enjolras as if expecting resistance, but Enjolras nodded and looked round at the others.

“Are we agreed then? Do we wish to stay here? All of us?”

“Would you leave Grantaire?” Jehan asked quietly. He smiled when Enjolras shook his head. “I want to stay. I’ve never seen south, and I don’t want to be a soldier for the rest of my life.”

“I want to be with you,” Feuilly agreed. “If I go back, I’ll be retired. And Gavroche is convinced I’ll ride again with the right sort of saddle.”

“As long as Aelia comes too.” Bahorel looked at his hands, turning the ring on his finger. “I don’t want my children to be conscripted.”

“Will she come?” Combeferre asked seriously.

“If I persuade her, she’ll come. She’s smart, she’ll know it’s the right way to go.”

“And you, Marius?” Courfeyrac asked, shifting to look at him properly. “Will you stay?”

“I didn’t come all this way just to walk back.” He smiled despite his hoarse voice, and Enjolras stood amid the faint laughter, slipping out to go and talk to Valjean. It was all very well making plans to stay, but they needed the chieftain’s permission first. And after that they would need to be truly integrated into the village.

Grantaire stood at Enjolras’ shoulder as he spoke to Valjean, though his fears were unfounded. They would be officially welcomed into the village at the first spring celebration, Valjean told him, provided they renounced all loyalties to the Empire. Enjolras was relieved he didn’t include any conditions about renouncing God as well, and bowed three times before he left to tell the others the good news.

Outside, Grantaire caught his arm, expression conflicted. “You’ll be going back to the wall, won’t you?”

“We must. Bahorel has family there, and we have some personal belongings to collect. Don’t worry.” Enjolras took his hand and squeezed. “I know what I’m doing.”

“Won’t they try to kill you for deserting them?” Grantaire shivered as a breeze blew in from the forest, and sighed when Enjolras unclasped his own cloak and swung it around Grantaire’s shoulders.

“Not if we don’t tell them we’re deserting.” He squeezed Grantaire’s shoulders. “I’ll go, probably with Combeferre and Bahorel, possibly Jehan. We’ll tell the garrison commander that we had to leave Marius with Feuilly and Courfeyrac, and we came back to get supplies for a rescue. Bahorel will get his family, we’ll get our things, and we’ll sneak out again that night. The wall’s too undefended, and we know the rosters for watch duties. It won’t be difficult.”

“Then you won’t mind me coming with you.”

Enjolras was shaking his head almost before Grantaire finished speaking. “That won’t work – why would I bring back a Votad prisoner?”

“I’ll wait beyond the wall for you.” Grantaire cupped his face, and Enjolras realised that somehow he knew Grantaire well enough now to tell that he was scared and trying to cover it up. “I’ll hide and wait.”

“Then why come at all?” Enjolras asked as gently as he could.

Grantaire kissed him instead of answering, a hard press of his lips as his fingers gripped the back of Enjolras’ neck. “I can’t stay here if you’re gone.” He pulled Enjolras down so their foreheads touched. “Don’t ask me to, Enjolras. Please.”

It was foolish. Enjolras knew he knew it, but he found himself nodding anyway. “I won’t. You can be our guide.” He gave Grantaire a small smile, which grew when Grantaire hugged him tightly.

“Thank you.”

“As long as you don’t let anyone see you.” Enjolras grabbed his shoulders again. “Promise you won’t let anyone see you.”

“I swear it.”

When they journeyed down the mountain to the wall a week later, Grantaire stayed hidden behind the treeline while Enjolras, Combeferre, and Bahorel rode out, dressed once more in their Roman armour and cloaks. It felt strange to be wearing it again after so long, and Bahorel joked that they’d be getting fat and lazy soon.

“Personally, I’m looking forward to it,” Combeferre muttered to Enjolras. They both grinned as Bahorel rambled about what he was going to do when he saw his children again, and how happy he knew Aelia would be that he kept his promise and came back to her, the way he said he always would.

Enjolras and Combeferre kept the garrison commander occupied while Bahorel spoke to Aelia. By nightfall, their collective belongings were packed, a note for the commander informing him of their desertion (Combeferre insisted, so that no one would come looking for them, or stay to wait for their return) was left in their quarters, and at Bahorel’s nod they knew his family were ready to join them. It was easy to leave, to slip away from the wall in the darkness and head back for the treeline. Even with Aelia and five children in tow, it was easy. Like shedding an old, worn-out skin.

As soon as it was light enough, they hurried to the place they had left Grantaire. He was waiting, and as soon as Enjolras slid down from his horse he flung his arms around him. “Longest night of my life,” he muttered against Enjolras’ neck. “I didn’t sleep at all.”

“I told you we’d be fine.” Enjolras kissed his cheek and stayed on the ground to walk at his side, letting Bahorel’s two youngest girls ride his horse instead. “We’ll be home soon.” The smile Grantaire gave him was so dazzling that Enjolras had to laugh. “What? What did I say?”

Grantaire kissed him, both of them ignoring the shocked giggles of the girls above them. “Home,” he grinned. “You called it home.”

“Well it is.” He looked over at Combeferre and then back at Grantaire, heart the lightest it had ever been. “All the people I love will be there. That’s what home is.” The way back to the village was slower with the children, but no one pursued them. They reached the stream only five days later, and Enjolras held Grantaire’s hand tight as they entered the village, Courfeyrac’s excited embrace welcoming them back.

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this, please consider [buying me a coffee!](https://ko-fi.com/A221HQ9) <3


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